Old age reaches it's hand inside my ribcage and grips my heart. Squeezing it and wringing all the blood out. Old age drags a fingernail straight down the center so I can feel it ripping and my heart is still pumping, pumping, pumping blood, but old age is still holding so tight that each pump becomes twice as many, three times as many, four times as many pumps.
I feel sick.
I just want to go home, and curl up in my bed, and sleep. Because there's no way that I'll never die, and there's no way to stop thinking about it. So I'll curl up and go to sleep and hope and hope and hope that I find some other way to waste my time.
Sometimes I feel you inside me. Like you've wrapped yourself all around my heart, just like old age, except this is different. I feel you, and I feel fear, but it's nice. I feel you wrapped around my skin, draping yourself over my shoulder, around my hips. If I close my eyes I see you inhaling my exhale.
I feel sick;
but I feel safe.
I go home, curl up in my