I practice magic tricks and this is what stuck feels like. It feels like now. I could give it a name but the name is too big. The Houdini shuffle and the pinkie split. The cards go over and over until they blur into a fan of ash. The doors are locked and the air sulks with blue bellied teething pain. Practice in the mirror until my eyes become sticky and my fingers sore. My book says I have to imagine bellows as a blacksmiths uses them. It reminds me of the job I don’t have. The magic I can’t do. The voice that doesn’t call me from another room. The voice not calling my name. Anxieties comes like a drummer late to the show. Some of them are real, some of them are imagined and dredged from the bottom of a pond. There is no wire, no safety net. I am a magpie that takes cards and drops cards. This is what stuck feels like.
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