robotsatemyhair

This is a dangerous time of year. The trees bud and I flick my fingers restlessly into the air, waiting for the energy welling up within me to fly from the tips in sparks of wonder. Every lap of wind against my ear, each drop, each shine, all of it caressing my skin and calling to me. It begs me to be part of it. It urges me to experience it. I am shamed by my wanton internal discord.

There is no satisfaction here.

There are dreams in the day and there is waking in the night.

There is roaring under my flesh.

My heart pounds, waiting for something/anything/everything to happen.

My organs are screaming for change inside me.