My ring is staining my finger. I can feel it. The copper leaking green onto my skin like a pen bleeding ink onto cotton sheets. But it's just another thing to stare at. Another blemish on my right hand, joining my split pinky-nail and the scar from freshman-gym-class basketball.
Everything feels heavy, screaming to find ways to rest horizontally: my hand defaults to the desk while my spine collapses onto itself, aching for my mattress. Or the couch. Or the floor. I'm not feeling so particular tonight. The ring looks so pretty against the grain of the wood, rhinestones reflecting light like a 10th grade science experiment. It taps and rolls along as my finger twitches, syncopated against the beat of the my brain turning out empty sparks. One line. One line of something that makes any sense. One line to turn into 2 pages because somehow that's possible. Even if twenty minutes have passed since deadline. It has to be possible.
I'm starting to feel the tired in my fingernails, as though they're growing veins to add a little something to the occasion. My knuckles tense and pull the pads of my fingers off the keyboard, the letters like hot coals on my nerve endings. I draw my hands into my chest and lean my head against the edge of my laptop. "Just take whatever thoughts you can find."