via Daily Prompt: Symptom

The urge to write is so strong.

Where have my words gone?

They’re tucked away in a layer of dust with every bad intention I’ve ever had. Swallowed by insecurity, they are scratching my throat as they dangle in my esophagus. They are hiding like cowards in weak nouns and subpar adjectives.

Uninspired. It sounds like a curse.

I’ve never written anything more than I have in these bouts of writer’s block, but they’re never words I can be proud of. They have been used by the world before. They are stitched together with lazy conjunctions and lost in yesterday’s adverbs.


March 21, 2017

I walked to class this morning with dew on my shoes. The soles flattened each shoe-sized patch of grass, taking the cold and wet of the early morning drops along with my quickening steps. I thought about how when I was little, my mom would drop me off at my grandmother’s before she went to work. It was always early like this; the sky is light blue and expanding.

 I remembered how my mom would carry my brother inside, holding my hand as she walked into my grandmother’s house. I would trot behind her with my shoes in tow, baby feet squishing through the grass. Once inside, I fell asleep on my grandmother’s couch with damp heels waiting for the later morning, when I would wake up and pick out the grass shards from between my toes. 

I guess that’s why I ended up slipping off my sandals before class this morning. I saw the dew, and I needed to know – everything still reminds me a bit of home.