I will never crack my knuckles again.

I haven’t a bone in my body that doesn’t speak in whispers, they all grind and crack as if they are trying to communicate with one another, sending electric shocks through a system of wiring in my body to convey subliminal messages under my skin. My joints are land mines, I can see it now, a crack of a knuckle and suddenly a thousand anatomical secrets come pouring from the creases in my palm. What a spectacle, what a sight, a fit of magic to move myself to believe in a higher power. What a thrill, what a mess, to have secrets all over the floor at my feet, but for their electricity to die out before they can even reach the ground. A dead spark, a wet match, a short circuit. What’s the use? I would rather keep the static stored. To achieve this, I will have to cusp my hands together lightly, I will have to be careful not to crack my spine too rapidly, or a mess of electric shock might come bursting out of my neck. I will have to be gentle and fragile and tender, because these secrets my cells tell one another can burn holes into the back of someone’s head, can strip me of my sense of common things, can leave just as quickly as it comes. I will be quiet, I will listen and I will catch the slight buzz that occurs at each point of concentration, and I will not create a crack. I will never crack my knuckles again.

--Lexi Mire