I wake up stirring, a pain echoing through my body as I try to understand if it is real or the leftovers from my nightmares. I get a load of nightmares, one after another as I wake up screaming which results into a severe coughing session that the nurses run inside.
Should death come with your relatives, the pieces which built you out of their own flesh, what if you die when they do or after the body fully rots or the ashes get scattered away in the memory of the platonically beloved?
My mother is besides me, as I wake up. Her face twitches as she calls out, screams out for help, as I can’t stop coughing, her fingers soothing my hair, never touching the opening wound or my bursting lips or cracking from her touch bones, running through my head deeper and deeper until I feel bruises and she rips my skull, sending me to infinity, I try to tell her but I cough even more.
My hands shake too much and the notebook is too far and she doesn't give me it, saying that I am allergic to paper, the first thing she comes up with.
I get something injected into my body as I already have wires intertwining liquid and blood in my body. I bit my lip as I feel a pain where it is injected.
I am no longer left outside.
I want to tell my mother to head outside, as I curl, sobbing in a mute way, but she just stares. It reminds me how I used to watch catastrophes on television. You stare in a numb state, in a lull, not able to do anything but mesmerize the scenes of horror.
I am the terror.
Something so surreal, something so sick that it twists inside you, forcing your eyes to get glued to screen, as the mood fades out.
In this case it's my veins, as the blood freezes inside them and eyes fall out, it feels like it and I say it with my tongue only it doesn't gets written upon the world.
Fades out into nothing, leaving you to daze and wonder what you were thinking about before, erasing the moments of grief.
Day Seventeen
Should death come with your relatives, the pieces which built you out of their own flesh, what if you die when they do or after the body fully rots or the ashes get scattered away in the memory of the platonically beloved?
My mother is besides me, as I wake up. Her face twitches as she calls out, screams out for help, as I can’t stop coughing, her fingers soothing my hair, never touching the opening wound or my bursting lips or cracking from her touch bones, running through my head deeper and deeper until I feel bruises and she rips my skull, sending me to infinity, I try to tell her but I cough even more.
My hands shake too much and the notebook is too far and she doesn't give me it, saying that I am allergic to paper, the first thing she comes up with.
I get something injected into my body as I already have wires intertwining liquid and blood in my body. I bit my lip as I feel a pain where it is injected.
I am no longer left outside.
I want to tell my mother to head outside, as I curl, sobbing in a mute way, but she just stares. It reminds me how I used to watch catastrophes on television. You stare in a numb state, in a lull, not able to do anything but mesmerize the scenes of horror.
I am the terror.
Something so surreal, something so sick that it twists inside you, forcing your eyes to get glued to screen, as the mood fades out.
In this case it's my veins, as the blood freezes inside them and eyes fall out, it feels like it and I say it with my tongue only it doesn't gets written upon the world.
Fades out into nothing, leaving you to daze and wonder what you were thinking about before, erasing the moments of grief.
Day Seventeen
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