knob raze a broad bulge of bone has gone rogue and separated itself from my cervical spine. i am a door that will not close. my handle hemmed in by unmarked skin. too much crouching and craning and bending and twisting and turning, and this is what the body does. it complains the only way it knows how. vinyl singles sit sopping wet in the kitchen sink. what i mean to be a scream leaves my throat as more of a squeal. voice too weak to carry the pain that feeds it. my father thinks a seagull made that sound. he says he saw the bird fly into a tree. i don't tell him the cry came from me. 240818 what's it to you? who go blather from