Sick.

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I spent the day wrapped up in myself, hiding within a tangle of chain-arms and fence-legs, crossed and bounds with elbows and kneecaps for tight, rusted hinges.





I didn’t know what was wrong in me.



I hid behind rows of fattened backs, sporting corny Chinese tattoos and gaudy skulls, dripping chlorine-water in the sun.





I didn’t know what was wrong in me.



I hoped they wouldn’t notice my absence, I hoped wearily that no one would care. The echo in my aching head was soaked in some cynical oil, bitter and charred. It tasted dusty.





A tear slipped.





I awaited my punishment.



In the passenger seat, uncomfortable and distorted, I radiated heat and raged a sinus war behind my face as tears gathered and waited to charge like brave, loyal soldiers. The battle’s preparation buildup warped my face into and angry, sad figure as I fought my war alone, tied down by a seatbelt. I gathered my losses as they fell down upon the ground, shattered like a mirrored ceiling.



“I was never very touchy, even as a child.”



“Don’t twist my words, liar!” The words stung like sharp glass. I felt dusty tears unlock themselves from some foggy, yellowed attic inside the top of my mind’s eye. “You wear a good child. You only wanted to be left alone, you were only distant and cold, when you were sick.”



Have I been sick, then, for five years?



I still can’t find what’s wrong in me; I still can’t find a cure.





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