Dear Tics

Dear Tics:
 

I sit stiller than still, pallor,

wear: evident in the creases of

my face.

It has been a long night.

Now we are silenced, our

fragmented minds

reunified with an equally

fragmented reality.

Me, I keep to my kinetic

melodies (a lie: there

is nothing musical

about it, just disjointed

blaring irritation sputter

impact)

I sit on my hands, my hands

do not comply: they never

seem to care about how

I feel, how my chest is

aching, my shoulders tired

after a long day of aimless expended

energy,

I sit stiller than still, I cannot

be moved, I will not be moved

I will not move

My chin leaps up, my hands

flutter forward, shoulders back.

Look at the sky, I tell them.

Look up at the sky like me.