Clothilde

If I am quiet they will come.

Breathing into my skin...in every pore.

Whispering.

Lining my stomach with a sickness only I know. Covering me in scents. I gag. My hair on end.

And yet, to silence them
to silence them
to silence them
to silence them


I cannot.


If I being truthful, I do not want them. To dissapear. They are a part of me. Simmering. Whirring. Bubbles about to burst with heat.

Today they warm me. Brandy in my belly. Electric blanket on my skin. My throat burns with their taste.

I inhale the flavor up my nose and it stings, but I know what is coming.

I am the in between. The terminal between them and all else. The old the new. The median.

I drink thought through my fingers. I feel the pieces of the world as tiny pockets and I can push the particles aside. Push my way into the spaces and ease myself inside. The world is empty with little floating bits that I can move. Feeling the empty in between. My joy. My fear. To know as I do is to know you cannot fix what is to come.

I feel it grabbing at me. The pull, the split. The breaking of strands. The warm burn as my hair in unplugged. Snap snap snap I feel nothing
nothing
nothing

I cling to it
to nothing

The feeling. To know I FEEL as others do.

Jars.

More tickle. More pull. More snap.


I am spread thin.