My eyes busy themselves tracking and tracing during the day. They hardly see anything at all. They are paranoid fish swimming around in their sockets chasing what is laid out directly in front of them. When my eyes aren’t chasing lines on a paper, or when it’s been a long bright day my eyes tire and my brain fires up. Reality ceases to censor the violence in my peripheral.
I can see how my words fall to the ground when they are tangled in spit. I can see the skin of my feet falling off with each step I take in any direction.
I must stumble over myself more than I think.
I see my friends, and notice now when they are gargling blood in their mouths. I want to wrap them in my arms and give them counsel, but I know how my touch erodes them and how my breath torches them.
I wonder what they think of me. I wonder if they are my friends.