My throat closes.
My hands twist into boulders. My chest explodes and implodes simotanously. A desert suddenly inhabits my words. The tiny grains of sand get into every crack.
A sandstorm rages.
My face has bright red whip lashes from the furious ceaseless circles that it makes.
I try to keep it in. Keep the damage from being done. I don't like picking up pieces after a storm. It's unnecessary work that can be avoided by enduring a few more moments of internal conflict.
Rage.
