Stop Thief

She wasn’t always so fluid.
She thinks.
This is a thought,
Not a sentence.
By desperate she means in danger of leaking out of herself.
People do all the time, she thinks, remembering all the puddles.
This goes beyond incontinence, she thinks.
This is a thought,
Not a sentence.
The sentence would go like this: I hate dreaming I am somewhere and waking up somewhere else.
(If it was a sentence, and if the dreaming place rippled and the waking place caged.))

Write it out. Write it out.
This is an encouragement.
Writing seems monumental until she considered the weight of a thought.
She often had such enormous thoughts they fell on her chest like stones
Writing seems dull until she understood the sharp edge of an undisclosed thought.
Once she cut off her own leg with one.
For years she limped looking rather than writing.
Of course as it is with all lost things, they tend to turn up in the places no one looks.
This is reality.
Who wants to go there? She asks. This valid question holds the key to the cage.
No one answers.
Why? She asks, folding the key into a cork screw.
No one hears it.
Write it out. Write it out.
Bring others into your undiscovered world.
They have it too. It is not up to them. It is up to you.
Delete.
Correction:
Up to me.

It’s enormous.
It’s dark.
It circles around her.
It takes time, she thinks, picturing a clock propelled by a million swiped legs.
Oh there, she shouts with a ball point pen.
I recognize that one. It’s mine, she writes, feeling the loss of her limp.