Tuesday, 4 June 2013

when it gives me the creeps

i don’t want to do it i don’t want to do it i don’t want to do it i don’t want to do it i don’t want to do it i don’t want to do it anymore.
It’s a good one.  I’m squalling.  I’m dizzy.  I breathe.  I breathe.  I breathe.  I rap my knuckles across my scone, it sounds faint and looks spotty.
i don’t want to do it i don’t want to do it i don’t want to do it i don’t want to do it.
I work harder on breathing.  My wrists are buzzing with adrenaline; I’m so full of juice I feel like I shouldn’t be touching the ground, but I’m breathing.  I’m breathing.  
it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok i don’t want to do it it’s ok it’s ok.

I’m making funny sounds, all farty and wet and there’s snot on my sleeve and I’m pressing my left eye into my knee cap and it feels better.  I don’t know how I got here.  I’m crouching next to my bed, and only now do I register the knob from my sock drawer pressing hard into a fatty cushion in my lower back.  It hurts.  It’s good.  It’s a boring dull grounding ache. I breathe.  I breathe.  I venture a laugh. It’s pretty speculative, the sort of Coo-Wee! you hope finds a friend and not a bear in the bush. The spots are slipping back to sleep, I’m sinking back into the drawer and I’m laughing.  I’m laughing and wiping snot from my face onto my already damp sleave and filling my belly with stupid hacking laughter.  It’s ok.  I’m ok.

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