motion.

R.S. Clementine

R.S. Clementine is a speculative fiction writer based in Washington, D.C. Originally hoping to pursue a career in publishing, their experiences of work, creativity, and health have been redefined by disability. As they experience repeated referalls, waitlists, and heightening symptoms, they have pushed to reconnect to their creative process. Their work examines how disabled grief fuels reinvention.

motion.

in 2021, i am still healthy enough to go to school full-time.
i am writing a novel, and i’ve won a scholarship to study creative writing in New York City.
i am the eldest. everything is as it should be.
i surrender myself to the cost at the end of each day.
my door shuts. the lock clicks.
the shock of rough cotton sheets is enough to halt my breath.
the pain has only grown worse with time.

the seizure lasts 10 seconds.

there will be no writing tonight.
i drop my phone three times before i manage to select a TV show.
ice-cold pinpricks race across my skin.
my hand jerks, and the app closes.
i can never watch for more than 15 minutes.

the tics make my neck sore, then cold, then warm.

my fingers curl when i type. my voice halts, slides, repeats.
i shove my phone onto the floor.

i tell everyone i am tired. i need extra time to rest because of my conditions.
in 2021, i do not have the words yet.
humiliating tests, unremarkable results, perfect attendance.
14 hours in bed each day.

the seizure lasts 4 seconds.

here there are no projects. no tests.
the lights are dim. pillows carefully arranged. this time is mine.
warmth pools in my joints. i breathe. my vision fuzzes.
i roll onto my stomach. i cling to the headboard.
i can choose when to feel, and where.
my mind repeats memories that are not mine.

time slides.

my nerves chorus.
i feel everything.
my dreams blur.
i remember everything.
my hands are not my own.
i flinch, and shudder, and gasp.
i do not move for an hour afterwards.