TV static crinkles at the very fibers of my being
My brain is nothing more than a boat being tossed about by waves
My stomach feels like a ball being kicked by children
My eyes are lost and glossy like a baby deer lost in a field; constantly darting and wide with the inevitability of death
The bags under my eyes are a harsh purple iris in a field of daisies
The carefully screwed-shut mouth on my face wobbles every time a gust of wind pushes my way
It is a good thing; that he is on trial
but why do I feel like the one waiting for the death sentence
I feel like a bird that the cat has caught and brought to its owner to see its kill
