Peel

I made a joke about having four stomachs. Poor joke really. I should have said instead, I have a hole of infinite measure securely inside me. Last night I fed it with screams. Those screams were fed with a heat and Black. Black is as hot as you’d imagine, especially when it forces itself through your open mouth and nostrils expanding into ten thousand hot needles whistling out of your pores. Ten thousand, I counted.

I managed some respite, one hundred and fifity minutes, of passing into a form of sleep. Finally. I woke up after, Blackness lifted and replaced with heaviness, the same hole lurking, just as deadly. I fed it water and soap and coconut oil and dust as I walked to the fruit shop near the office.

One large Mango, two large Oranges, one cup of condensed Milk and I am here shoving fruit cake into a hole that laughs back at my foolhardy attempts at pacifying it.

For punishment, for tying I am rewarded with spots on my face. Four and counting. My clothes feel like bleached skin, pants too tight, my real skin seeking an escape from my insides, my blood pacing restlessly.

Rest evades, still.

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