Weak as a kitten from anemia and all I can see are the colors above the door swirling round my head and settling themselves on my skin. That’s where they fade. Nothing kills the boredom like lying a hair invisible on my palm and pretending it tickles because something inside lets me feel the essence of things. The mattress feels soulless and the static tells me that my stomach harbors a dark resentment, though I couldn’t say why. It’s where all my heat is, deep and lasting, but I can’t pretend my fingers are cold when they leave warm circles on the lips I touch them to. Warm lips. That point is always when I take the walk, as physically as I can for the time being, and the trees aren’t watching me because they like to face into the forest. Nothing concerns them out here. Or me. Nothing concerns me anywhere, I’m just a cage of flesh that fights drooping eyelids and feels the static emanating from my wrists, wrapped in brunette strands and internal manacles shaped like veins. The road is never empty, old debris and diary pages on fire. An overturned bus with a dozen passengers. Thirteen shattered skulls.
Notes From a Pending Existence by Danica Green