The playground wood chips stuck to the bottom of my thighs. I was thinking... I couldn’t stop thinking.

On a long night, questions rattling around my brain like pennies in an old tin jar I sit there hopelessly lost and angry at myself for becoming an unfamiliar pair of eyes. The things I’ve done, said, thought, have made my heart and mind tear into each other trying to rip apart the lid of this coffin I’ve made and my lungs fill with fire, bright and hot, burning until the scorch marks on my throat produce the sharp edges of my voice that can only be a desperate plea to the quiet apathetic onlookers who can only be grateful their six feet hasn’t been dug.