Does it make you feel proud to hold my vulnerability like a bullet in the barrel of your throat? Does it make you feel proud to shoot my words back at me, watch me wounded on the floor beneath your feet, a crushed flower longing for her soil, does it make you feel proud?
“Death”. The word seems to come alive, grab my throat and push me to the floor. The garage becomes a carnival and the sunlight peeking in through the small windows turns to strobing roller coaster bulbs. I am bound to a Ferris Wheel riding a black horse. I’m psychotic. I have to be. Maybe mental illness runs in the family and I am just finding out 30 years too late. This can’t be true. It just can’t.
Thick blood is pouring out the gashes in my face. I need to find somewhere safe to hide. I hear heavy footsteps and people shouting my name angrily. If they find me, I won’t have much time. Today is my predicted death. But I refuse for that to be my destiny. I have 10 hours left. I will survive. For her.