It's crawling under my skin.
Growing larger in my rib cage.
It's this feeling I hate.
When I know it's coming.
Like watching a **** begin to crack.

I filled the floor with broken glass and ***** clothes. I dropped a pitcher of something on the carpet. The shower is on and my clothes are soaking wet.

I'm suffocating on the secrets of June 15 1999.
My grey walls turned dusty brown.
My pumpkin candle turned to stale cigarettes and moldy food.
Heavier and heavier.

Again.

In the morning I'll ask you to replay the
night and try to piece this all together.
I obsess over the tiniest details that I have dragged out of my subconscious.
Descriptions and words spilling from my lips, fleeing like escaped prisoners.
Although the fugitives legs will never grow weak from running to the sun, his cell walls will stand tall behind him, waiting for his return.

The moon is calling and I don't have enough duck tape to patch this **** together or the key to break these shackles from my ankles.

I brace myself for the weight.
Growing larger in my rib cage.
Heavier and heavier.

Take notes this time, for when the morning comes, I'll ask you to replay the night and try to piece this all together. Clue by clue, I'll find a secret.