It fires in the vacancy of my stomach,
beginning like an unexpected blow . . .
then creeping like an illness to sit on my chest –
prickling at my shoulders.
It prowls upwards and downwards,
leaving a trail of boils
I’ll have to tend to later.
I sense it,
in the crinckles between my brows –
streaked with sweat . . .
In the ringing of my ears –
an ironically silent torture . . .
In the heavy pulsing of my head,
where my ponytail starts . . .
I suffer this,
when names feed off my brain tissue;
I’m slightly conscious of their fading.
I’ve known it especially
in the winter blues of my walls –
four encasing me,
or is it three
or five . . .
they look as if they’re confused and dizzy,
constantly spinning
constantly laughing in delirium
at the loneliness that stresses me
and my hush lipped friends.
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About the Creator
Alivia Evans
Writing Blogger
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