Britney

I am walking down a lane of grey, away from the cathedral’s husk, and the air smells like the Goosebumps pages in the corner of my middle-school library. It is one of my favorite scents, and I favor the slight mustiness until it clears and the freshness of post-rain hits me. There is no shortage; I push my face out a bit more to let it merge with the coolness. The past hour dissipates, the air playing the platelets to my tipped bucket of blood, until I enter the familiarity of the station. An earnest return to dimness and delay.

I widen and refocus my eyes, trying to make them as sober as they can possibly be. I want out. I have this constant need to rush most things and this is one but it matters the most. I don’t know how to grasp for the right strands, and when I do my fingers tense up in silent self-sabotage. Everything eats me with haste. There is no way to protest without ripping open even more and showing the unpleasant marrow. I can’t remember the last time someone asked me to share more. ♦