I feel like running. Every space is closing in on me. I feel the breath of everything I hate on the back of my neck- reminding me that I’m growing older: I’m truly unhealthy. I’m still suffering. I’m confused about what’s happening in my mind. I’m going to stay numb forever. I’m angrier than everyone, and I resent them for it. I’m sinking into myself and you can’t stop the darkness as quickly as you used to. I’m watching everything revolve around the sun as I wait for the moon. No one talks about the moon. I think the moon is lovely. It heals me. It comforts me. It’s light makes me feel less like a sinner. The hem of the noise that creeks through the roof and the walls is just the house breathing -coming back to life. I dare it to swallow me whole so that I can live in the belly of my own storm. My own home. My own way of showing the world how vicious I can become from the inside, out. Make a garden from all the flowers I left on caskets and sidewalks and doorsteps and porches and windowsills and graves and watch how sadness grows like a promise. Wish me well as I continue to breath fire- at least I’ll keep my house warm. Let it glisten against the nightfall as everyone turns away from me to cast their dreams as my nightmares anchor me down. To move freely again would be more than enough. More than enough. More than enough. I feel like running. -AMT