fettered

how am i to write?

i who lack a narrative, i who use single phrases to describe everything, i who cannot weave seamlessly into one unified sentence that give semblance to a plot, i, i, how am i to write anything? if everything lies in making everything lyrical, to abandon structure and just burst with words words words that scatter around like butterflies, all pretty but alas, escape us entirely, and so we are left only with only an impression, a sequence of an act, the chaotic act of fluttering, the relentless erratic movements that go off in every direction but one, then how am i, to move?

everything escapes me.

she surrenders herself before the act. she feels incapable. a gallant nothing. he is ascending in his grief, elevated, free, but here i am stuck in my pool of doubt, the insecure brat, i refuse to cut myself off. i am afraid. i remain shackled, beneath his gaze.