It is
not an itch you have to scratch, it is a surge of power that begins
in the centre of your back between your shoulder blades, and spreads
up into neck and arms carrying with it a flexing jerk of the muscles,
the force of which jars backbones and traps nerves.
It
fires downwards. When it reaches the waist, the body is forced to
bend over double, a worsening cramp that in severe instances causes
the legs to flex and the toes to curl, stretching out sideways to the
maximum point of muscular satisfaction is reached, right on the point
of pain.
Sometimes
the voice cries out as the back arches back up, sometimes the body
bounces back with a spring and the face cranes to the ceiling, neck
wrenched back and the mouth makes wolf cries full of abuse and
swears.
This is
what the stress does.
One
day, maybe very soon, I'll get in a whole lot of trouble over this. I
yell what's on my wind; if someone has upset me, I will hurl abuse
about them into the void. Whatever is on my mind becomes vocalised
and spat out like phlegmy rocks of hatred, embedded with clean as
crystal nails dipped in toxin. Sometimes I bounce back so high I leap
into the air like an electrocuted slinky, spine unravelling from
extreme compression.
Other
times my arms see saw through the air like I'm beating an invisible
pair of soldier boy side drum, and my neck jerks so violently I keep
trapping nerves in my shoulder. This isn't science fiction. This
isn't fantasy.
This is
a body that is outwardly normal. Providing you are looking at a short
exposure photograph of it. For when it moves, it is out of this
world.
Copyright Bloody Mulberry 06.09.13
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