cold tiles

there was so much that could not be released. time began to lose it’s momentum, minutes fell quickly into days; which soon accumulated into piles upon heaps, of years. suffering slipped into the simple disguise of wild attempts at making better, making good.

retracting old habits, sworn into never allowing ourselves to thread similar paths. what is it about our inherent inclinations towards safe-keeping only the battered memories. we recall, with such gust the awful throwing of cling and clatter; around the room. the metallic taste, welling up inside my mouth. spitting, till it came out clear; there had to be no trace of red for it to be safe. clear mucus, sweat; streaming down my chin. my clothing soiled with cries for help, how they stuck to my chest, around my sleeves; the moisture cooling my skin; like menthol. being 5 and looking out my window, watching the moon seek it’s hideout from peering eyes. and then, there was yelling right through my ears, i felt its tremor set a chill in my bones. there was not much blood that night, just the dragging of my hair, scalp feeling the hardness of cold tiles; my spine curling towards my belly. there is so much i cant leave behind.


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