Thursday, July 21, 2011


Digging the schrapnel from my palms. Blood oozes. Fingers quiver.
I hear it, the blood rushing, like waves against a mighty wall. Crashing. I look around. I hear nothing else.
The grass, cold against my cheek, dew clinging to lashes and lips. Beneath the stars it is warm. Without the sun to stare I can breathe without fear. A hollow orb of nothing-ness. Empty. Parched.
Little droplets. So red it hurts. They slide unhindered down my fingertips, satin against my skin.
I wonder. Voice soft against the oppression of weariness and misgiving.
“This is it?”


I'm having a not so good day.

I needed to write.

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