I have checked eight websites and the dictionary on my nightstand.
I did not need technology or a writer to tell me there is chaos in my heart.
I don’t tell people sometimes my dreams come true. I fear some parts are
not metaphor. In the mornings I check the horizon. I am relieved when
there is some whisper of light. On the way home from camping, a large
storm made the highway a blur of brake lights, my fingers killers to
my steering wheel. I kept searching for funnels, their willowy bodies
twisting their way to the ground. Mapped out escape routes and viaducts
to pull beneath. Today I fell asleep on the couch again. The wind rustled
me awake, and parts of the sky were dark again. I can’t shake that something
is coming. I don’t do well with worry. My mother built me to fix things.