Starting in the pit of my belly, it oozes its way through my bloodstream, through my organs, muscles, tendons, fat, leaving all of my messy insides feeling hot and prickly. My breath becomes shallow. I stare off at something, anything-- an old piece of mail on the chair beside me, the two books on my shelf that need to be switched so as to keep them in alphabetical order, the shoes on a stranger sitting across from me on the train. I've never been good at hiding emotions on my face. Unhappiness paints my eyes with unease and my mouth with disappointment. You will not see me smile. You will not hear me speak unless spoken too. But I'm silently begging you to ask me what's wrong so that I can mumble back don't worry about it.
My mind is a tangled mess; I'm too impatient to work through the knots and besides, it's easier to let things worsen than make them better. Each new tangle results in a new sludgy thought. It's throbbing now, pushing up against my skull and I want to tear at my hair, my flesh, I want to claw my way through anything to find some relief. I want I want I want.
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