Soon it will be over, but now time ticks away and my free reign of the house will be no more.
Walking home was long. I sipped guava juice and strode - no, shuffled - down Blackmore Drive, my eyes diligently picking out the specks of the pavement and my legs carefully avoiding them. There's a feeling beneath my skin, like something or someone was stupid enough to think that Halloween had come early and I was a pumpkin, using blunt scalpels to gouge out my insides then realised there was too much blood and stuffed it all back in the wrong way. Stapled me up instead of stitched; and every inch of me is searing burning white hot ?pain. Bone where my heart should be. There are air spaces, big holes of nothingness where it really serves no purpose, drifting eerily to the surface and screaming whywhywhy as it pops wetly. The wind blows my skirt into a navy parasol, a crouching froglike lump of ash smolders and ebbs away into the greyness.
And some part of me that can think wonders what I ever did to deserve this, and whether everything will ease into its place again, where eye is eye and heart is heart and soul is... intact, at least. It feels like there's a huge emptiness in my chest, air in my lungs? It billows out and threatens to suffocate. But doesn't, because it's air.
And oh, the paper I wish to burn. Just keep burning, ignite the torturous artifacts. Reduce it all, please, into a wasted stack of paintimelife nothing.
Wake, you've been sleeping; tell me what you believe in. You fell so far, you should have been a star.