[A tiny hole, a little puncture wound from the past, right in the center of my chest.]
Every time I cry, there is a tapping on my ribs, something asking to be released. There is something or someone huge inside of me, begging to come out. It grows, fed by my uneasiness and my despair. As it grows, I feel weighted, carrying with me my own sadness and the heavy being that lives inside of me. It's anger at being imprisoned shreds through my organs; I no longer have an appetite or a pulse, just this thing, easing it's way into my veins. It rearranges my thoughts, out of order and then back again, until I can't take it anymore - I don't want to think anymore. It grows fingers, and they curl up into a fist, tightening in my chest, and then the next feeling is familiar; I know it just wants to be free. It presses on my tiny puncture wound, trying to push it's way out, twisting and jabbing, but the hole won't open any further. The pain is absolutely unbearable.
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