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That night something crawled between my ribs and whispered to my heart until the blood in my veins was sullied with secrets.
Now when I scrape my knees the wounds never clot; they flow and seek and hunger.
To whom do I owe the bitter symbols etched upon my skin?
To whom do I owe the soil caked beneath my fingernails?
To whom do I owe the salt always layered on my teeth?
The wind howls and it howls and I can’t help but wonder if it’s finally come for me.
Would things be so bad if it did?
Point anywhere on the map and that’s where I am, I’m only solid here.
I could disappear like a magic trick if I truly and fully believed, but as with most things, even minute levels of doubt ground me to reality.
If I decided to never sleep again I would spend my nights thinking of the sea and of colors and of all the music that will only be born long after I am buried.
Thinking of snake skins and the smell of Autumn and the feel of bone-deep hunger.
How easy it would be; to wake up one day for nothing to ever be the same again.