december eleventh.

sick day not optional. clammy hands, an anxious stomach and stars and butterflies and everything upside down. quickening the pace, inkstained fingers, shaking hands. try to drown out the noise of silent conversations. a treasure trove of secret, things i don't want to think about - a split end, unfinished business and a family policy of always talking but shutting up, shutting down, shutting people out. a carbonated bottle closed too tight, shook, and opened. an explosion of self-destruction, of color; it all starts with an ending.

unconventional, the things that don't always fit where they should. a wheel that doesn't spin; where is there a place for me? nowhere, but it's now: the time for realizations and excavations of truths not hidden in my desert. things not hung out to dry, things i'm not so good at explaining. let down expectations, how can it be expected to explain things you don't understand and didn't expect? hiding everything that really matters, each day: everyday never failing. a lockbox, fireproof safe - it won't save me, can only contain me and the thoughts i don't like thinking. a fear of the past isn't a very good reason to always be running forward.