I find my head turning, giving notice to something:
the phone on the table. the front door closed and my boots near it. I am on my knees, palms pressed into the floor to stop myself, howlite next to me. a deep longing to be still. I am facing the door. itis not even three seconds before I am grabbing my headphones.
I am interrupting myself. clutching the straw and the keys and the knob. knees crack. my wrists are turned inward slightly; always and unnaturally so it’s hard to write things down. my handwriting an indecipherable slant of lines and wavy figures. sometimes it’s hard to pick things up or open things or just be here now. the constant ache. the T-rex bend to the elbows so I can fiddle as I pace. the way I like to do it: an internal palavering clouding me as I lope forward. I dropped the howlite for this. pick up the straw. habits are insidious. they are the leftover thing to shake. made from ephemeral need becoming the most used devices even though need is fleeting. you could wait a second,
or only have one sip of water to sate a tongue. one glass, a whole throat. a couple more glasses more when it’s dehydration, but this is the distant oasis you’re gaining. this is the gauntlet. these tics; they just sit through anything and become fed. fat. the word habitual means regular or usual. I am flinging the front door open in hat and coat and headphones because the come up is hard but you have about ten minutes of a mostly innocuous adjustment before it gets harder. before the drug hits.
habits are familiar. they are the leftover thing.
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