The Page

I kept reading the same paragraph.

The words weren't sticking, my eyes

sliding off the page

the way wet things do.

I hadn't eaten. Just kept going,

thinking the body's complaint

would fade like background noise,

like something I could ignore.

By evening it was loud. Specific.

My hands shook on the fourth

time through a sentence

that meant nothing.

I put the book down.

The room tilted. Just slightly.

Just enough to know

the noise wasn't the page—

it was me.

The kitchen was three flights down.

I counted each step like penance,

like the body had a right to ask

for what I'd denied.

My stomach was loud.

My hands still shaking.

I'd ignored it all day and now

it was demanding everything,

asking why I thought

I could just

skip over it.