Worlds are
words are
violence.
Depression is sanctity is a cool clean desk and the soothing ice palm of nothingness against my cheek. I bring my forehead down greedily, wanting to catalyze the rush of my iced-coke resurrection.
The thud resonates in slow motion as conversations quicken. A moment of shock: did the teacher hear that? For a moment everything hangs and she goes on rifling through papers. A few stares. Pain flowers in my forehead. Her eyes well up with tears.
And I stare at her in amazement as they drown but don’t spill. Surface tension? Cohesion?
.
.
.
.
Pain is a flower, but guilt is a wrench.