Calling me

This place calls to me; silky smooth, I want to trail my hands up and down its length.

Write on me it says as I wander about the house, procrastinating. I need you. You need me. Write on me.

This place of mine that bears my name, I itch to fill it with words. To feel it swell and grow with me, to feel it take on a life of its own. I want to be known. I want people to know who I am, to say, that’s her, she’s a writer. I knew her. I taught her. I helped her birth her baby, I know her and now her name is known.

I want that, but the wanting feels selfish.

***

Open your soul and sell your words. Spew them forth onto the page and scream your story.

It’s not my story though. It’s her story. And she’s gone quiet these last few days, leaving me staring at a word document and longing to feel her breathe down my neck, telling me what to say.

***

I’ve not had a panic attack in a few days. At first, I thought it was a good thing, until I realised that it’s because I am refusing to think anymore. I’m refusing to do anything but cope.

Denying the pain works wonders for the issues arising from it. Long term though, it’s not a pretty sight.

I think that is why she is gone. I can’t feel anything at the moment.

I’m too caught up in coping.

And still this place, it calls to me.