truant in nature.

anxiety quells within the chest, a lump of mucus waiting, itching to be expelled in some horrid fashion. another night. another sleep and waking dream to hate or dread. a cold night with wind howling. dragging up snow and sand. tackling the house, and that object shudders. i along with it waiting, itching- wishing for a drug, up or down, pacing back and forth. i hold it all in, in some weird agony. ii try to ignore. i really do. try to ignore. fuck. it's scratching at me, begging to be let in. or out. dual and vague, a paranoid thought, feeling, whatever. it's here. it's coming. it's going. fuck, whatever. every tick the house makes lasts an hour. swallows me up. visions i cannot name, ineffable, redundant and ancient. no. primal, angry disturbed. shambling night fuck. it's myself in my own hubris, ignorance, knowledge and shame. pounding in my skull. wailing on the door like a tiny brute, screwing his way into the aching wood of mind. the fuck do i do? the fuck did i do? how do i go about fixing it? or do i just ignore the whole fucking it-thing? how can i. aching, aching, aching.