Sitting in silence.
Alone to the bone.
A soft madness tickles over my spine.
Already now, the inner lining to the oh so tenderest side of my lower lip, is chewed clear through to the fat--giving birth to a coral reef like place, where fragments of pink flesh dangle and snag between incisors.
I nibble at them in the dark.
That's when i hear it.
Or think it.
Somewhere behind me.
Souring me with a heavy taste.
An over-the-shoulderism shutters through my leathery organs. Impossibly. As there is an outer wall not but six inches behind.
Like worms in my ears... I hear this charred whisper crackle.
"All the greats killed themselves... coward."
The accusation is what scares me.
