sometimes i wash my hands for a really long time, too long maybe, the water rushing onwards is a cool-warm answer to questions i don't have to efficiently translate word-to-word or worry about answering. i hate talking on the phone, it feels insincere and flimsy. there are movies and songs that get underneath my skin and stick there. they make my heart close in on itself, like a million doors slamming shut until the oxygen has no rooms left to sleep inside. i've had these specific re-occurring dreams periodically, since i was little, that seem to acknowledge some spiritual hallway to walk through. it's somewhere close to suicide, like a nudge, a gateway. a "nows the time."
hell isn't a place it's a thousand bugs in your brain. hell is slow, hot blood in the skinny cold shells of blue veins. hell is a bruise. i'm sorry. did you call my name? i seem to have lost it somewhere. i lay in its absence for hours. i have found it is almost bearable if i stay perfectly still. i listen. i can hear them. don't mind me, this is how i cry now.