never-ending scroll

blood warm in your veins flickering like christmas lights, your body screams “you are alive” and you want to scream to someone, a stranger, a blank face onto which you can project the face of first your mother, then pet, then colleagues, a face with open eyes and clear unblemished skin and clean hair and a lovely and pink mouth that turns up slightly as you talk, fast, trying to externalize your thoughts before they disappear like wisps of smoke from factory stacks or an intricate dream you intended to write down before you got distracted by coffee and the urge to pee, dissolving into a vague sense of repetition, a memory of a memory, which is exactly what you are afraid of becoming: a memory of a memory of a memory of dust swept away by the wind or a janitor in a stained grey jumpsuit, and so you sit and take in the permanence and inconsequentiality of words on a page, your brain on drugs on a page, not fried like an egg but sort of, maybe, a little, ish…

something, some thing you have tried over and over again to describe using real, miriam-webster-certified adjectives, as opposed to the vomit and spilled drinks and wet cheeks and guttural noises you make in bed at night, alone or not, to you it’s all the same, and you don’t sleep so one, two, it’s all the same, morning, night, it’s all the same, monday, wednesday, friday, all the same, happy, sad, the same: your life as one 5-worded line that repeats over and over with slightly different punctuation and syntax and everything bleeds into everything else and there’s no clear beginning or end

About Izzy Sanhueza

Izzy Sanhueza is an 18 year old writer living in New York City. Follow her on Tumblr.

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