In the morning

when your thoughts seem guided

by some frenzied Army general

bashing on a typewriter,

every letter dropping

another grenade

into the war zone,

your rationality weaving

through the steel raindrops

of every vowel and consonant

that makes up your fear

until finally

the general takes a moment,


to let his fingers rest

so yours can take over

with a gentle “tap, tap, tap”

sending snowflakes down

to settle over the scars

left by the explosions.


Every time you bite your nails, you’re trying to clip away a little of your stress – to literally take the edge off – or you pick at a scab or a pimple or an ingrown hair, hoping that the part of yourself you pull away is the part that made you look for something to pick at in the first place.

You can’t after all pick and pick at the thoughts in your head in a tangible sort of a way – you can only try to dull the noise, hoping that something- picking, alcohol, nicotine – can silence the world in your head like a blanket of snow can silence a city.