‘There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at your typewriter and bleed.’
I try for blood but sometimes I can’t find the vein.
Or I nick something and ooze green, as though I am descended of insect-kind and not a person at all.
Some days writing is more like vomiting. Too much that comes out I recognize. I poke through carrots and peas and taste the bile.
Tonight I am made of paper, folded, refolded, over and over. Every inch of me bloodless.
Open a window and let the wind invite me out.