Madness. Stark raving madness. Leaping flames of the mind. Gently licking at the heart. Blood set on fire, brought slowly to a boil. Madness. Stark. Raving. Madness.
The conversation simmered as such: "Don't be dramatic."
Is this how we go about pretending we are shocked when people cut themselves shoot themselves hang themselves end themselves when they are told to simmer as such: "Don't be dramatic."?
Drama is my eye sockets bleeding heavily at paper-crumbled past midnight. But of course I cannot do that. I cannot bring myself to bleed.
Drama is my hands effortlessly clutching a neck- any neck, I don't care whose- and squeezing until my eye sockets bleed. But of course I cannot do that.
Drama is not a breathless exasperation when suddenly a wave of the same old same old begs to drown you again and once again you must pick up a pen to survive. Darjeeling you tire me oh so very much. You hate me oh so very much I think. You...
No, me and my madness. Stark. Raving. Madness.
Which I can't let happen again because apparently dramatic is being able to barely take my next breath and wondering why respiration in a classroom should be a mountain climb.