My dreams are volatile, the skin I’m in screaming for claws. I’ve been acutely aware of my femoral artery lately; it undulates in my body when the world slows down, singing to my fingernails, nearby blades, shards of porcelain. Inside it lives a Demon that wants a fight; a good, short, bloody fight. It licks insults, flicks Its tongue, bites Its thumb at me. It incites me, enrages me, begs me to take action against It. The Demon wants to die, but more so It wants to take me with It. It’s getting harder to ignore.

I haven’t been as active on social media lately with my quips and witty dissertations, my sharp-tongued opinions, lacerations of pop culture and friendly distractions. Because I don’t think anyone wants to hear my opinions. Because I don’t want to hear my opinions.

Trust me: you don’t.

Reach In and Pull This Out