The walk to and from therapy

by SpittleRattle

The morning is filled with cuckoo spit and loosed, bloody feathers. Grey air is clogging my lungs and a thin, oily residue of shame seperates me from living things, once again. Need to shake it off before it crusts over.

Relation-ship-sinking-drowning-waving-goodbye went the psychobabble stream of association as I plunge and glug bubbles. Panic stations.  Sucked in by emotional hyberbole and, if I’m not mistaken, a true feeling. It’s hard to be certain. But. There’s something hurting.

But at my age something usually is.

Bones creak in the cold fog and my boots are sodden. Rotting wood, tangled tape, fungus, fumes,magpies chattering. I suck the nicotine and strychnine in like vitamins, then turn the ignition.

On a mission. Engage.

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