The turning is back.
This time it's a hollow feeling in my gut. You know that feeling, where you just know something bad is going to happen? I am the feeling. My very self is that feeling. My body is out of place; my body is wrong. All wrong. A land mine in the field, waiting for someone to stumble upon me. There's only so much of it I can take. A cigarette to calm my nerves only lasts a moment and I turn to whiskey, at least I would every chance I got. The fire that starts in my belly until it numbs my limbs. My thoughts bump into each other, leaving me dizzy and disoriented.
Just how I like it.
Why do people I barely know smile and ask me how I'm doing?
They rarely care.
Everyone has problems of their own. They are all being eaten alive by guilt and demons.
When I was little, I would sit on the swing set in my back yard. I'd twist up and up. Then let go and watch the world swirl past my eyes, down, down until I would just lay on the grass and wait for the spinning to stop.
I can't stop the twisting now.
It turns faster. Just like the swing.
I can feel my fingers slipping on the cold chains, my hands slippery with fear. Terrified. I don't know what will happen when I lose my grip. The turning might stop.
But the knife would leave me body bloody,
Lying on the green grass.