it’s the hill of ants, making a home across your skin. it’s the grease in your stomach, concrete finally setting in. and just when you think that you’re fine, you’re okay, you’re better this time… it finds you. and god, it digs in.

eats you up, a little bit. my fingers shake, my jaw hurts. i think i’m gonna vomit. so i drink some water, and i turn my headphones all the way up. this can’t be it…

so i push it away, until i can’t do that anymore. until i’m some kind of ghost, drifting through the walls until my ribcage turns hollow, and it’s all my fault somehow, don’t you see?

i am small, and alone, turning to dust already, as the sky turns red, and the river slips down my throat.

fifteen years old.

the number is clunky, and cold. it doesn’t feel like my own.