Boiling blood

Your head is heavy with a dull pain. You let it peak and build and push and press until it pops and runs off with all the anger you’ve been holding hostage. Holding it not to control it or massage it into submission, but rather just to let it be there in a quiet circulation of bloodless comfort. You hold it silent. Choice seems futile.

Words pour out from wherever they’re created in your brain, like arrows they aim at their target – and miss. You hold your silence. You hold your ransom. Imprisonment is a partnership; any power here is blind and blunt and it’s beating has your head heavy with a dull pain.

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