there is a constant ache behind the eyes - dim, like the dying embers of a fire. my stomach is always too full of everything I didn't eat, the foreignness spread like black mold beneath the surface of everything.
picking at hangnails, picking at chapped lips, picking the scabs that scabbed over my spirit.
my tongue is scratched like a scratched cd, I have only one or two things that I keep repreprepeating.
there is a build-up in my throat of apologies, lingering on my breath and the truth I have been keeping in my belly, the truth I have swallowed so greedily, the truth is I haven't much