A friend told me that he
hasn't been feeling like himself.
And I feel that because
neither have I.
Today I had to stay silent.
Because speaking up would mean that all the bad
bubbling up from my chest like lava-
slow but a terrifying burn nonetheless.
Making a child cry is not something you should be proud of.
And as I comforted her I had to turn off these feelings before I myself became
inconsolable.
My legs itch.
My face itches.
My elbows itch.
My scalp itches.
And now my knees itch.
Itching to get away.
So I ran,
and ran,
and ran away.
Because,
dry heaving under
the open sky
is preferable to the anxiety
that runs like an
electric current in my
bones.
