(I never want anyone to know how sick I am but maybe I do without having to tell you in words)
I walk into the metro to a torrential noise storm pounding my headphones — could be drums or could be death
Glory to God, I think,
This beastly hurricane has finally come to claim me.
I look forward to the kisses I will get if I avoid being institutionalized, but
Is this train even moving? What’s the word for color blindness except it’s whether or not your body is in motion
I enclose a prayer to my godless self that I don’t get sent away tonight or the next— I think of my grandmother in a box and feel the color leave my cheeks but everyone always says if you don’t look at the body you live to regret it
And I’m scrunching up my face because maybe it will feel like an invitation.
L Scully (they/them) is a queer writer and double Capricorn currently based in Madrid. They are the co-founder and prose editor at Stone of Madness Press. Find them in the ether @LRScully.
Serotonin 