Blood by Batool Hasan

I sit on the cold tiled floor, hug my knees and rest my head on top of them.

A drop of water lands on the crown of my head.

Speeding thoughts slam into each other, words tangle with voices.

A drizzle rains over me.

Asteroids dance behind closed lids. I tilt my head back, letting the droplets pour over my bloodshot eyes.

I turn the temperature higher.

The record of creaking floorboards and hands where they don’t belong replays in my head.

Higher.

I claw at the map of invisible fingerprints on me. Nerves flare up as the noises turn into loud static.

A thunderstorm.

Perhaps you’d like to reconstruct my face to fit your description of beauty?

File my cheekbones to be sharp enough to cut through your façade?

Hmm, what about my personality?

Oh you want to tear it down and start over…blank?

Higher.

Louder.

Your arms grab me in a chokehold.

Liquid fire comforts me.

Tectonic plates rage beneath.

Cracks burst and race along my skin. Pieces fall and dissolve into the Plethegon with a hiss.

Static turns into white noise as I fall through the surface.

I am dead skin and ambitions.

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