It’s a plague, this worry; it’s her room, it’s her skin, it’s uninvited, this projection is unkind.
It’s messy, it’s too many clothes and not enough closet space. It’s her left, upper thigh, the space she leaves for proof of her error.
It’s being a visitor in her own home, her whole life.
It’s manic.
It’s rude.
It takes up space, in a place already so small.
It hardens her skin, she grows scales, bark on a tree, another layer.
She gets angrier, faster.
She breaks things, hoping someone will hear the shatter, come running.
She is losing control at the wheel, she doesn’t care.
There are no soft hands against her skin here.
Her neck is bare, she’s trudging out of a swamp, fully clothed, with no direction, just trying to get out.
The days have stacked themselves on top of one another, blended into one another, it’s all the same colour now.
She wonders what this means.
She knows what it means.
She doesn’t listen to herself anymore.
About the Creator
Jamie Ramsay
Every word is chosen from my throat, in the moments I feel too human.
I am your guide into the sinkhole.
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