the dry earth of my dusty parted pink lips
Sometimes it is a lot, being an energetic being.
Sensations arise swiftly, infiltrating my mind, uninvitedly entering my heartbeat, the flames of anxiety burning prickly sparks of uncertainty up into the embers of my closed off throat. Burning like glowing amber ash into the ligaments of my voice box, my gut rising and falling like a half-inflated hot air balloon battling the currents of a looming storm.
No sound ever makes it past the dry earth of my dusty parted pink lips, left waiting for some kind of lava flow that never erupts forth.
The tornado of panic inside my clenched stomach leaves my head spinning. The breath deep in my lungs fuels the smoke choking off the wordsthoughtsfeelingsemotionsdesireswants churning so rapidly that it all just goes
Mute
Into a hazy formless cloud of static nothingness.
Where the sound is so loud
That you can’t hear a thing.
