September 21st, Year of the Corpse

I do not care. I am a formidable force. I am exhausted. I feel a burning desire, but cannot express it. I am backed into a corner.

I am overlooked and misunderstood. Unusual and complicated. Aggressive and contrary. Against the current. Resting on the hilltop, dreaming of level ground. On city streets, training my breathing for Mt. Everest. Chanting my way into a trance, skeptical of the supernatural. Swatting at a fly, abstaining from eating meat. Asking for the truth, rupturing my own eardrums.

There are longings that have become so desperate, they cannot be spoken, but demanded with a roar. Instead, I am reserved and contained. This is a poison I have built a tolerance for. I drink the liquid, rather than reveal that there are things about me, that are much like everyone else.
There is a reason why there will never be mercy for the proud.

In this silence, I can confess that my hands are cold, and need to be held. My health is not enviable, and I need to be reminded to eat.

September 21st, Year of the Corpse

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