Acid in my Eyes

I don’t know what to say.

There’s an ache. Deep down somewhere, I don’t know. Like the muscles of my body are trying to curl in on themselves and die with every thought I have. Like they’re trying to find a cave that they can disappear into. Or dig a nest of safety. Surrounded by barbed wire. To hide.

It’s something. Not quite pain. A dull ache that takes away my breath. Then relents again when it seems like it’s too much. Just a little. And it’s never enough. Then it’s back again with a vengeance like the thoughts that spawned it.

And then it bubbles up to my face and warms my cheeks until I’m blushing like a child who thinks he’s in love. But it’s not a blush, it’s raw flaming heat that burns my skin away and blisters at the corners of my eyes and blurs my brain like someone took an eraser and rubbed away all the parts that held semblances of joy and optimism until the corners of my eyes drip acid that rolls faster than water.

And it’s growing now, like the flames I burned past days in. And the acid falls faster now, falling like rain and it burns my skin and it burns my pride. And my muscles still clench like they’re trying to hide.

And I don’t know what to say.