The insects are back, filling your insides with their scattering legs, their nervous fluttering of wings. They multiply in your gut, straining the tissue that holds you intact, tearing at your seams in frantic attempts at escape.
Maybe they aren't trying to get out at all. Maybe they enjoy the cramped existence, the constant pecking reminder that they are alive.
You wish they'd keep their reminds to themselves.
I took a long walk along the river this morning, in dogged determination to live, some days I think this blind stubbornness is all that remains in my pocket. When you jumped off that bridge on New Years morning, all I could think was you were so determined to die, there was nothing anyone could have done to stop you, the mouse evades all my traps at night, it knows better.
I know better.
The cabin host writes again. Is it just you?
The insects laugh. Dare you to open your mouth.
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