the steel rod

I come to this page with a steel rod in my chest.

It feels cold and unyielding as though if I bend at all I will pierce my entire being and I will exist no more.

It keeps me from breathing.

It keeps me from writing.

But as they say, a writer must write, so I will bring this steel rod with me to this page and write until it softens.

Until it begins to let me breathe again.

I will recognize this steel rod as a temporary un-friend I must disengage from every day.

It hangs on as if to let go means death.

And it does mean death.

Death to the un-writer that is me.