darker | side | thursday | 2

I gaze across at the trees.

Brittle branches blurred by the breeze, leaves coalescing into a swirling, suppurating soup in front of my aching eyes. You couldn’t make it up. Could you? Or maybe you could. Me, I don’t know. Don’t really know much right now.

I feel pressure in my eyes, darkness enveloping me. That old cliche. Gets them every single time. When I try to describe it to them. The feeling. Hell, I can barely describe it to myself. So how to them?

My fingers feel numb. My ever present and faithful companion (not the bumblebee this time), the pain in my back, ebbs. Hey, that’s good, don’t knock it. There has to be some positive side to all this. No? No, probably not. But I digress. I flow.

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darker | side | thursday | 1

My finger is red raw, bleeding. Distracting, debilitating.

The index finger, on my left hand.

The nail is torn, blood oozing from the tip and running in a slow, painful rivulet. A stinging, insolent, rude and raw pain. I want to peel the torn nail off slowly, feel the parting of flesh, the slicing agony. Need that. Want it.

My fist clenches. Fingers dig into the splintered wooden table top, slivers of fresh twisted wood piercing flesh, sliding under my nails.

I shift uneasily. That empty, roiling feeling inside me making me anxious, again. I can not sit still. Can not focus.

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