Glacial Burn.

Everytime your eyes roll when you shut your lids, the ground slips out beneath you. As your pupils point up in the darkness of your sockets... your head falls back while the floor flies up from under you. It blurs in a curve from under your feet and up up past your face and beyond behind you. And it keeps whizzing away; the earth, the wind, your world.

The intake of your breath feels like breathing liquid. The heavy and sluggish flow hugs to the sides of your throat... running along the walls of your windpipe into your lungs, like a lover's caress. The sense of expansion plateaus into a plane of stillness, pregnant and aching. It isn't unlike the revelations at the peaks of your yawnings.

Then bony fingers stab into your ribs, through the slits, sharp and blunt at the same time. You throw your head forward, doubling over, holding your abdomen. Your throaty exhale makes you imagine your chest crumpled like a paper bag, it's air sucked out in a sudden vacuum. All your breath is out, but your chest is still contracting. You are flattened to the depths of stillness, empty and crushing.

A grimace spreads on the face, the teeth are lock in a stalemate in exertion. The flesh on the cheeks are knotted up, the brows furrowed in it's downward push. Thus the eyes, still rolled in their dark sockets, are pressed in from the outside. But like water in a squeezed balloon... the tears escape.

And the subsequent breaths turn into sobs, and the occasional pathetic moan.