My wounds, while healing into a salmon-toned tapestry, have hooked into my perce…

My wounds, while healing into a salmon-toned tapestry, have hooked into my perception issues. Sleeves are like rubbing steel wool over my arms; from shoulders & knees down its like moving someone else’s fiery, rat-gnawed limbs. Raising the mental fog needs space for yoga and dance — the rhythms of cleaning are a poor substitute. However! As the stress soaked into my soul has slowly bled off writing has returned, my #14 pants slide down my hips and drag through the mud. So that’s nice. 10-14-17

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