clouds of fog fill and float around my eyes.
i haven't left my room in three days other than to drive around with people who make me feel needed. my eyes are sore. my nose is sore. my lips are sore. i keep scratching at the cuts and claw marks on the backs of my hands and around my bony wrists. i want to push up my sleeves, but i don't want to stretch out this shirt i'm wearing. my sleeves remain hanging loosely above my knuckles, and i remain uncomfortable. i feel unsettled. i don't eat very much lately, and when i do eat it isn't very healthy. i never want to eat again. i never want to feel the taste of anything but smoke on my tongue. i never want to go through the motions of my jaw grinding. the bullet around my neck is feeling heavy and my head is slumping downward. i'm thinking about orange powder and brown mud. i'm hardly thinking at all. that space i have heard about recently--the space between the base of your lungs and the top of the gutty area in your stomach where all the wires seem to come together and connect--feels like there's wind blowing through it.
i'm twenty years old
and there is wind blowing right through the middle of me.
