The friction between graphite and paper.

Its drag on the paper a catharsis, like digging for secrets

through rock laden earth.

An easily broken trowel

still capable of excavating caverns

long covered over by the soil of denial.

The sounds of it like the plaguing questions we spare answering

for we still aren’t ready to hear the truth.

The hiss of roiling pots on a stove throwing water upon the flames

attempting to douse them.

The staccato of nagging realities

The swoop of a blotted memory

The scritch of all that haunts your mind when sleep is due.

But also,

The call to slow down, and release this weight within you

before you sink through the silt.

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