I have always found it unsettling that when my heart feels bruised my eyes feel like fire. I romp through the grass, blazing an ashen trail for miles. I want to line my eyes, heavy with coal, and run through the night screaming at the top of my lungs.
I want to throw glass plates at bricks and watch them shatter. I chew the inside of my cheek instead. My breath is static and I am so angry. I can’t remember the last time I was actually angry. Hot blood runs through me.
Days and days of black coffee. Little sleep. Plenty of frowning. Moving forward from an epilogue is like being dragged through mud.
When in doubt, bottle everything up inside your ribs. Then, explode at three in the morning . That’s what is expected. Don’t let them down.