My Head

Is surging. Flushing. Churning. When I stand up, my head. It just. Goes. The pounding, the disorient. It makes me feel like i'm high. It makes me want to act out, but realize that i didn't need to act out. It makes me want to speak, only to regret the words once spoken.

The chill the window sends to my arms and back is growing. The time I find to write is slowly crying.

I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I

Can't Focus.

I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I

I'm slowly crashing.

Finding less reasons to.

Fictional Story:

She didn't know how she ended up here. Or how she got in this photo. With the faces she couldn't make out even without the editing. The night was a daze, and with awing twists. She walked haplessly around the party with no shoes that she dearly missed. Her jeans were tight and her shirt a bit to revealing. Revealing to her beauty not to her flesh. Revealing to the mind of all those who tried. Her gait was a stagger, with the purple of the sky above her. The grass felt fresh like a garden green ballad. She would encompass the grounds with a joyous vigor. Throwing her body to the teeth of the liquor. The people they watched and laughed without anger. They were happy as she to be now and there. To live that day, to breathe air.

 Her ghost was helpless to watch. Far from the real. He watched in horror, as he could not protect her. He shot looks and glares and Burned out screams from life there after. At the men who gazed for curiosity, space, or whatever. He felt uncalm and uneasy. Her skin no longer warmed his heart in the darkness of after. He would never see the reflection of himself in her eyes, never. It irks him to follow, but he knows he couldn't stop. The flame has been lit and will never black out. His fire would never die so he'd just cry. To hover on her shoulder, he'd try his hardest to be close. He held his arms around her even as a ghost.