The perfect storm. The rash on my forearm. The heart on my sleeve. The black cars in a line. The cold air against my cheeks. I'll distract myself from enjoying life. I'll choose the controlled silence over the unpredictable rushing wind. I'll run toward the cliff and then stutter for the last few moments before I jump. I'll tell you how I feel as soon as I know how high the cliff is and how deep the water will be. I share more than enough because I have too much to share and no one listening. No; you are all listening, I'm just not comfortable starting. Open me up and I think you'll wish you hadn't cut me there. Perhaps you ought to have aimed for my vocal cords.
The dead skin scraped off of my arm didn't even leave enough for a scar. I'm afraid of my fingers and the death I live in. I'm trying so desperately to stop time or reverse it, but my efforts are futile. My heart is shaking within me. I don't want to be here. I want to revert. I want to stand still and see the clock move backward. Where are you? Where will you be? Shall I write you? Will you here me? Is my more than enough too much too soon yet? Stab me before it's me.
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