Narratives

It is March. The hydrangeas and sweetbays have flowered early, and in their turn, have withered away. It is misty, and rightly so. It spires and flows as a river over the asphalt creekbeds outside my door. I have never seen something echo so. The traffic lights tint it red, orange, and green. There is something so wrong about the tainting of mist. I am pushed to guilt. I walk inside.
I am sickened. I walk upstairs, and hold my gut as if restraining it. It is swelled with guilt. I vomit. It is acrid, and the bile wells in the back of my throat. It tastes yellow, as if I had swallowed a battery. I tear inside. I am sickened.
Something is wrong.
I am falling apart.
The sound from the speakers is tinny, now. My ears echo with it, and a pressure forces my eardrums inward to touch my brain and drive me mad and erase my memory. With any luck.
I can see the veins in my arm, and am quite concerned by them. They pulse. I squeeze my fingers in upon themselves, and the little capillaries exaggerate. I imagine them bursting. They would be dark, surely. Am I sick for that? Am I wrong? Should I be put away? Or should I just bleed antimatter until the world disappears and I rock forward.
Lipstick. Heh. Guilt.
Fuck it.

Kinda fun to write like that. Subject-verb. It's easy to do. Like acid. Smiles all around.