By Sarah Marie Kosch
Hem stares at the wall and wants to feel something more than pacing feet caught in her ribcage. It is as if everything inside her is in motion—urgent and jerky—restless—yearning. She needs to do something, move to run the fire out that is knotting into hard sparks in her intestines, smoking and scorching their way up her throat. But her body sits still. She is confined by skin and sitting alone on the couch in her living room. She stares at the wall in front of her, the smooth, flawless, unbroken blankness. There is nowhere to go. If the sun were out, she would open the door and leave—walk somewhere, see someone—but it is deep night now, and their shadows glide past the closed blinds of her patio door.