Bullets.

Once my eyes opened in the morning, I regretted waking up. A deep groan rumbled against my throat as I stared at the sun peering through my blinds. I squeezed them shut again. The blankets were tangled between my legs; I tugged on my ankle only to find it ensnared in my sheets. My right hand tingled from being pressed against my face all night; my gaze wandered to my fingers as they wiggled to feel normal again. A sudden cough woke me from my daze, still scratching me from my slumber; the memory of someone’s hand wrapping around my throat in my dreams left me unsettled.

My stare makes people uncomfortable; someone compared it to a laser zeroing in on its victim before the bullet leaves its chamber.

Sometimes, I am is desperate to leave this vessel. I’m trapped within the boundaries of my fresh and bones, clawing at the sides to get out. There’s so many screams and shrieks; it’s unbearable. My heart continues to race while sweat pools at the bridge of my nose. I stopped breathing and opted to hold my breath. The fragments of me are running frantically to survive another violent assault. Rational is quivering in its bomb shelter, clutching onto its hard hat and waiting to emerge from its safe zone to do damage control. Love is limping to my chest with a bullet would on its side, hoping to reach home to heal.

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