sick

…and when I do go out, I hide in plain sight.

Days stretch out ahead of me like highways, interminable weeks, all the years of solitude. I sulk on damp streets, safe behind dark plastic lenses. I keep my hair tucked into my shirt. There was a time when I forced my grief on the world, made them see me wrapped in the rage of all things lost–these days I opt to remain transparent, nothing save a ghost of a girl in the wind.

I am sick with missing my babies. I tell no one about the patterns only I can sense. A leaf twitches and signals a man to round the corner. He makes a secret sign and a red car proceeds down the road. They’ll hurt you bad, whispers an unfamiliar voice. And it all fits together like a puzzle and I know that when I get this way it means things are not going well. I frighten my friends. And I don’t know anyone like me.

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