October 14th, 2004

Mask

Ten Minutes

My heart is beating, through my breastbone, out of my chest. It’s a powerful organ, and mine was made to pound.
I was designed after a drug, engineered to have a heart that could run hot, that could take the stimulation required to sustain what I need to do.
In the moments between, when I can let my heart slow, I mostly sleep. I do not often dream, except when I lay on my back, and then, only nightmares, dead friends I cannot touch.
I was made for the drug, I was made for the spiral rush, but I long for soft, scattered moments.
  • Current Mood
    rushed rushed