It's not the words themselves, is it, it's the space around them, the space they carve out in my gut, the quicksand spreading up my throat and i want to say, no, i can't, not now. too much at stake, even though it probably isn't, objectively, but try telling that to the buzzing in my teeth, to the way my fingernails are finding grooves in my palms again. and i’m back there, aren’t i? back in that tiny room i built, the one where i'm always catastrophizing futures that haven't even been written yet, let alone lived.