MAYBE I SHOULD TURN MY PHONE OFF FOR A WHILE, I THINK I HAVE A HEADACHE

I think sometimes I should keep my mouth shut
Because when I vomit decisions into the bowl of my keyboard my stomach hurts
And my head spins
And I wonder if I should make glitter with my phone screen and go off grid to where nobody will
find me;

Singing drunkenly, the lone priest of Dionysus laments their decisions once again and prays to
the wild gods (who have no idea what a phone is) to fix it

The priest will stumble into the dark with hordes of fellow doubters and regretters following in
their wake

The crowd do not speak for they are afraid of what they will say, of the judgment of their peers

They do sing though,
It is very nearly a shouting, a cry en masse of anxious agony

And then they part when their beloved responds

They will return to their fellow doubters, clutching the priest's hands and legs searching for
escape from their own minds but the lost cannot give directions any more than the dead

The Crowd crawls back, crying in shame to the space in between discomfort and the sanctity of
knowing what happened next

And they share in the shame of knowing that speech cannot be practiced such as a stage
But that the phonics tumbling from the lips of people long past and people yet too pass feel the
pain of the misstep

And the risk in creating words.

Or in other words:
I'm sorry I said the wrong thing, please call me back.