Paige Johnson

Sometimes so overwhelming that it goes silent,

It does not leave her completely,

But displays itself in her flushed pink face.

It resurfaces gasping and sporadic,

Blissfully pained.

Sometimes it will pull her down

To that dirty cracking floor,

And she will roll and wail,

Grasping at her tender sides as though the waves will burst her,

Climbing weakly into that worn kitchen chair,

Slouched, recovering in short contented breaths.

Then any moment, at the drop of an unexpected phrase,

It could start all over again.