Living with the plague
can sometimes feel
intoxicating beyond its
own shadow of a doubt.
Sometimes you swallow
it down like branded gin,
other times you find
yourself succumbing
to the labyrinth of your
own mind, splintering
bone into new incisors,
slipping back behind
a dark alley to scratch
at a memory beneath
shifting tectonic plates,
a fractured steel skull,
a bleeding line of vision,
this tingling sensation
that itches me while
the rest of you sleep.

– B.

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