What does a person do after boxing themselves in?
Sitting in a corner and staring at the screen, my eyes glow but fingers remain still. An alien wants to be born from my chest, but my surgeon’s hands have gone numb and claw weakly at my rib cage. Fumbling with a scalpel, I slice my palm, flinch. Can’t get the damn point in. How do I use this again?
Once, this was my world. Burning eyes and precise movements knew every step on the path ahead, every rock and shrub. Now, I discuss carbohydrates and rude clients and stare at the door. I know that it won’t open, but the lights of the city run cackling along the horizon and speak of stumbling drunks on a Wednesday night, chasing pennies down the street and into the sweaty dens of card sharks in cheap suits.
I feel blood returning to my legs. It is almost time.
