Few words. Fewer breaths. Cloudy skies, chilly bread.
A sun that does not warm the inside of my head.
Stars, blotted out by street lights, a moon hidden in daytime.
A buzz in my chest. A heart of lead. For cold water veins.
Fuelling the unseen shadow of my blood. Pump. Pump. I hear it in my skull.
Pump. Pump. Yet, I hardly move.
My chest does not desire to draw in breath.
Few words. Fewer breaths.
A sun that does not warm the inside of my head.
Unsaid.
Prose by Marc Evan Aupiais
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