The insides are constantly collapsing in on themselves, and I twist and shout forcing myself not to purge everything I've ever known like love and certain dire memories that I would rather keep. This is a spontaneous exorcism; this is what it's like to be uncertain of your future.
People don't seem to say nice things anymore, or wave their finger from behind a windshield, wipers telling me it's raining, sweeping away droplets and discarding them to the peripherals. They don't even look at me. They just sing along to evening news, but don't think twice if murder should be more sensitive a topic.
And I am still here grasping my cramp, my kick from the insides of my soul, telling that heart to swell up and burst. I just take this all in. I just breathe in poison and smoke and words. How much can my mind filter?
But the ocean isn't drowning us, it's drowning itself. The earth isn't dying, we're little still holding toy guns to our heads thinking "what harm, really?"
Ask me if life is more than the internet and fast food.
See me watch the kids with lips and cheeks still red, with life that gives birth to, soon, nothing.
Be me, she said, be me if you're sick of this, and she blew it all in my face. How many people inhale at that moment and die on the outside too? How many people will know Death from then on?
Well I never knew Him, and I never want to.