The feeling like the razor sharp noise of a fan blade scraping across the inner surface of your scull. Hallowing out a cavity. Leaving a space for those wintery cold thoughts to ice over inches above the current, solidify themselves, just the same as the concrete numbness in one who feels frozen feet but remains trembling at the spine. A shivering transference of short circuiting energy and no wonder your hands shake so balancing on pins and needles. Wobbly knees. Graceful feathered voice.

life's trivial in the way it ebbs and flows,
moving in between your thighs,
flowing and rapidly thrusting upwards,
forcing you to regurgitate thoughts
which careen momentarily
in your mind
before being expelled from your mouth
after you've gasped for air

it's the carbon dioxide you release
that you allow to dance past your lips,
along your wrists & around fingertips
before its diluted,
sparing the conscience further shame,
robbing a moment of self-reflection.

after all, should you indulge
in the sweetness of life with
eyes too far open,
you will fall ill eventually
& you'll purge in one way or another
the pollution that was once masked
as pure mint-like oxygen

or a sweet serpentine tongue
trying to wrap it's way around the crevices
of your body, tempting you,
only to constrict moments later
and swallow you whole.
This is why i count as I exhale.

In my head I was thinking about poetry,
A way to mask the ***** things I'd done with
Beautiful words,
To lessen the blow on my ego.