white corridors blinking
on both sides of
my peripheral vision.
.
i can feel every blink of
the fluorescents that
stare daggers into my eyes.
.
blood shut. dry.
i have an urge to
light a match on my iris.
.
as i touch my hearth
it feels like i’m touching
a rough sand paper.
.
still. no tears on horizon.
Stream of happymess 