I’ve not even begun to move yet, and my heart hammer is tremor intense in my chest.
I can’t breathe for salted tears and the kind hands that are forcing me forward, clutching too hard at my hope.
If intention was colour, their intent would be gray and white-coat veined, streaked with professionals and their book-fed encouragement, whilst mine would be retrograde orange and living harm-red.
Two years of four-walled silence and I still can’t cope with the blue throat before me, beckoning my steps further along the slatted tongue. The space is swallowing me whole and the whole of me can’t stop swallowing.
I miss my son so much.