The water my mother gave me soured as I drank it, turning into bile and cinnamon once it was swallowed. My head spun, with ideas and with the loss of fluids and with being sad. Somehow, my chest was cold despite the never ending, painful heat of the sun.
In a store, on the floor, with with my head in my hands asking my God why the universe is cruel. My thoughts and words are knives slicing my lungs so I cannot breathe. My hands shake like little earthquakes under my skin.
Who said this was easy? No one. And yet I subconsciously say it should be.
The heat is in my veins, the charring red hot heat burning every inch of my body except my chest, where a heart should be. I haven't checked if it is still there in a while.
The heat. A warning of bad things, of panic and war and sadness and bad thoughts and
Stop
It can't stop now
I've gone too far
