The Morning After

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The heat has finally abated. You can exhale without feeling steam rising from the core of your insides, burning its way out of your nostrils and warming the air in front of your face to bakery level temperatures. Last night was a tropical freak storm in a small space; catastrophic, with a delicious malevolence that would have made Satan proud. You flashback, goosebumps popping up on both arms as shivers draw maps of nowhere across your back. Cork the bottle of memories or risk being incapacitated. Obedience is sacrifice, you shed blood and contemplate resurrection.

It’s hard to stand. Incredibly hard. The wall is a helping hand. Violated and ravaged, your body has many words for you and all of them are expletives. You join in the swearing, giving an audible voice to the pains that head, torso and legs cannot express. What happened in the dark left messages for the light to reveal. Read between the lines, no decryption required.

Hands under bleeding faucet, water to eyes. Again and again without gain. It is impossible to wash away what’s been imprinted on your retinas and burned onto your brain cells. You’re an invaded country, private spaces made public and occupied with contemptible disregard for propriety. Ruin has come to your defenses, destruction to your morality and decay to your watersheds. Welcome to the desertification of your soul.