My Worlds Of Words

Each morning, I wake and find myself still present. I am in a living room, lying on a sofa, observing my hands. They continue to function, holding a fork and bringing mashed potatoes to my mouth.

A cyclone churns within my mind, with memories and knowledge fragmented by the relentless force of unrealized possibilities.

My phone says it’s Saturday. I realize I’m at Jake and Gina’s place. I wonder if we slept together.

Maintaining a semblance of normalcy becomes increasingly difficult. They interact with me based on their understanding of my behavior, although I do not recall these interactions.

At this moment, my heart beats forcefully, reminiscent of trains on tracks. I cannot recall my address. I share my living space with two other people, one is my son. Each morning, I think of him. His age fluctuates in my memory, sometimes eight, sometimes eleven. I am approximately thirty-six years old.

Upon waking, the house felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Each morning, confusion persists. My mind is turbulent, resembling a hurricane that hurls debris against the structure of my skull. This debris consists of my fragmented memories.

I devote significant time to introspection. I realize that I have not left my residence in several days. Others encourage me to go outside, and I am inclined to comply. When they request that I engage in activities, it appears to provide them with reassurance.

External sounds, such as screeching tires, ambulance sirens, and barking dogs, evoke fear in me. These noises consistently cause distress, though the reason remains unclear.

I remember getting my clit pierced. I remember lying on a sterile cot, spreading my legs. The male piercer pushed the needle through my flesh. It hurt more than childbirth.

Words resemble crevices in mountains. I traverse the deteriorating, unclean fissures formed by the scrutiny of others. My heart resists contemplation, analysis, and recollection.

I cling to my words. My worlds of words. I get lost in the history of a lifetime.