Catch Some Wide Eye

This One’s Not About Me…

It staggers like a blow to the head. Swift, the recoil down past your shoulders. Ingrained like an embryonic dance. The fetal position, back hugs the wall. Or maybe the wall hugs you as the insurgence of chemicals leaks from a misfiring brain. Tears are all that’s left of you. And when I say you, I mean me. Misfiring. Like a colonial rifle with powder still left in the barrel, shards exploding into the fog before you even get to aim. The world pushing down on your lungs while tiny invisible thumbtacks stick notes all over your body. Reminders of who you really are. And who you aren’t. There are no voices but empty. There is no feeling but hurt. There is no safety but far, far away.


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