water shoots
I spread my cold fingers
in the pocket

I would really like to draw again. I have a lot of ideas. But my fingers are restless and
the scrawly lines hurt my eyes. My ego. How hard can it be to fill my cup?

I tell my therapist how joy is such a pain in the arse at times.

bare twigs
a tomtit headfirst
dangling

thinking
the yoyo of stars
in a cold field

At night I dream again of people I haven’t seen in a long time. We exist in the same
space, create rifts I dare not even think about. Pain: the mainland I do not want to
reach, but on which I stand.

Saturday morning. I find a handwritten note in the kitchen.

buy rolls for …
laundry

In my head I add

clear out the dishwasher
cut vegetables
clean the rabbit cage
buy snacks for the evening
decide what to cook
the kitchen floor is sticky
finish knitting that sock
write
edit
check deadlines

I know my mind will be tired before I have reached that kitchen floor. Maybe I will lie
down on it and stay there.
My thoughts take a stroll on the moorlands.

two   blackbirds
one   black bird
no     rustle

Plates into the open upper cupboard, cutlery into the drawer. I do not like these two
options: either trying to avoid triggers or exposing myself to them over and over
again. To prove to myself that I am stronger than I am.

I pull the compass out of my pocket and watch the needle dance tango and fandango.
Cues from the sky: this is where it hurts.

frost pine needles even more

I swallow the treatment like a poisonous mushroom. I take it without any patience
left. It says, “Wait.” When I am better, it still swallows my being. And sometimes I
manage to stick my head out of its row of teeth, and whisper, “Please, don’t bite.”

Kati Mohr