The Turning

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.
I'm tired.
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.
The turning.
The knife.
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.