Alexithymia

Small hands are weak.

Fingers slipping through one another

White rivers could grip stone better.

Scrape across the burlap

To rid sweat from palm

No use. Glands retaliate,

Salt leaks from head to hand

A wave of pressure crashing down,

She smothers my muscles

Insults my logic.



The air is thin.

If only those wide windows could open.

The sound of doctor’s orders

Muffled by drowning thoughts.

Maybe with sun and wind

I could be released from this corner

Like dust.

I could dissolve and spread

Moving in pieces

But moving nonetheless

Jessica Hodgson is a student at Western University.