Everywhere I look are piercing pupils staring into my wretched existence, slowly squeezing all pathetic pulp out of my poor excuse for a soul. I feign connection and attempt to pierce them right back. But I can’t. In shame I shy away with a shell-shocked gaze, pretend I understand the ineffable hieroglyphics being presented with precision before my delusional dichotomy of emotion.
The trucks crawl before me but I am always riding my bike beside them. Observing the progress as I slowly wear away my nearly-flat front tire. I struggle to join the pack and instantly enthusiasm is excavated and my pages pave the pavement.
Tied in this treacherous rope, I am uncomfortable and undesirable. Each movement nerve-wracking, I can resist or walk from the pitcher’s mound, peaceful at last.
I always think I am going to walk, but I always uncomfortably squirm out of the serpent’s grasp.
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