Angry

Confusion burns in my throat like a searing gulp of boiling fire. Charred skin. Flesh becomes red, and angry, and the soul within threatens to explode. With each second the tick beats in the brain, blood pounds like a clock's hands. My hand is shaking; shaking with fear and anger and the effort of retaining my composure. My mind is screaming; screaming a high-frequency shriek, and my eardrums are about to break, and I am caught right in the middle, clipped with a clothespeg onto a hanging line, a death line, and soon it will all be over.
So hanging here I become a scarecrow. Come peck my eyes. I will be your carrion, my meat your sustenance, my pulsing vein your gut. I am throbbing with the heat of anxiety, blistering and burnt in the scorching sun. Charred black. Everything is black. Heart, soul, and viscera.
I am a testament of a living failure that will soon be dead. Tomorrow you will awake and find that the scarecrow in your garden set fire to the flowers, and what is left is a barren field. Pick up a twig and smell the guilt. Feel the weight of the earth like heavy, cloying soil pressing down on you, the pressure of the entire ground suffocating your slowing chest: but soon it will all be over, when life ceases to make sense. Because now, everything is too clear, too painful, and so I must disappear to evade the pain; because I am a coward, not a fighter.
This scarecrow here is shedding a tear. A lone droplet that slides down splintered wood and rotting mildew, to the leg, no not blood trickling down no, never that, but a pure, clear bauble of sadness: crystallised; irrevocable.


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