End Kwote

After it's all said and done, life's just a bunch of kwotes

Sometimes this  pressure builds in my chest. Slowly, like water dripping into a glass. Drop by inevitable drop, filling me gradually. Drip, drip the drops pile up. Drip, drip the drops fall on my heart. They may fall like water, but they feel like tar, gumming my veins and arteries, hardening and making me heavy like cement.

I don’t know why. I really don’t. But this pressure builds so severely inside me. So severely that sometimes I feel like I might explode into the sky. Maybe that might be better. Flying above those dark clouds that always seem to be aiming in my direction.

But I don’t, and I know that – all figurative language aside – exploding isn’t the right thing to do. So I grit my teeth. And I clench my fists. I don’t let it take me over. I force it somewhere else. Through my legs maybe. Or my arms. Sometimes out the tips of my fingers.

It works. But not all the time. Sometimes it’s so bad that it takes over my mind. It wriggles and squirms through the cracks in my brain and interrupts every thought with screams and yells and shouts and blasts. Sometimes it’s so bad that I can’t even think straight. And then, truly, I’m useless.

In those moments, there’s only one thing I need.

A savior.

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