My hands have carpel tunnel. They ache when I write. They spit fire when I type. They are coals that keep my coffee warm. They are teeth that nip at my wrists with each text. They howl when I blog and coo when I bathe.

My writing has a sprain. It grumbles when I outline. It gurgles when I rhyme. It is the alveoli that keep exchange my poison for my oxygen. It is a rain droplet on my tongue. It genuflects when I laugh and whispers when I kiss.