Work Text:
Everything feels like it's on fire.
The air,
my skin,
the clothes
my eyes.
I want to rip it all to shreds,
but my hands are melting too fast
for me to do anything with them.
You don't feel the heat,
the burning,
the need to claw it all apart.
You're fine as it is,
no matter the fire
you don't notice you walk through.
How do you do it,
I wonder?
How do you manage
to not feel the weight of the atmosphere,
pressing down on you,
stealing the screaming that tears its way out your throat?
My throat.
You never scream.
No matter what I touch,
it's all wrong and
I just want this to be over.
You can't even tell that something's
off.
“Tell me,”
you implore.
“What exactly is wrong?”
I have no reply.
I can't even think like this.
You scoff.