I’m not sure what makes me more nervous, the fear that the words won’t show up, or the realization that you’re watching me.
There is a vulnerability to showing you this, letting you see how it happens, that intoxicates because there is a rarity to it, and rare things are precious. I can feel the sweat curling under my hairline, fearnotfear manifesting in tangible ways, a tickle at the base of my palm, an effervescence in the pit of my solar plexus as though breath is so intrinsically tied to the words that this is where it all begins.

I know that breath doesn’t come from my solar plexus, but if punched there, it’s air I’d lose first, the pain would come after. There will inevitably be pain, that’s not the part that scares me, that gives me pause. My only source of trepidation is a more personal impediment. I well understand that there is no room for timidity, no reason for modesty, and yet I still manage, after all this time, to unfailingly get in my own damn way.