I am my head. I carry myself whenever I am. My head feels afire and not boss, not one bit. I lost the ability to speak for three days once and did not despair because my body did not ache and my head kept me company. Anyway, when my voice returned, I did not speak for three more days because I don’t like how my voice sounds when heard from outside my own head. I only began speaking again because my head needed a break from me. My head thanked me, vigorously.

She can’t believe her eyes when I show her what I’ve done to my favorite place and she asks, “But why?” and I tell her, “Because I can’t keep it going, out there. Not anymore.” Her head and my head aren’t on speaking terms but her and I both understand what we need from one another. She didn’t know it, but she helped me put my head’s fire out; and my head didn’t thank her for that, not one bit.

If I could tell her what I don’t like about my voice I would, but I enjoy secrets too much so I can’t. She intuited it anyway, and now my head can’t go back to the way it was and I can only hope it’ll all be alright, eventually. 

She made me mint syrup, which I drink with lime and fizz. I am my body. I do jumping jacks in her basement while she rides a stationary bike. We talk like that for hours. She says “That’s normal” to me a lot, and I have no opinion one way or the other, anymore.