Warzone

Shuffling feet, bent back - it's hard to get through this day. Heavy limbs, burning eyes - this isn't an unfamiliar tiredness. What if it is back? What if that sliver of damnation that I have wedged between my shoulder blades is inflamed again? What if it's wriggled further inside and is poisoning my blood with black? I'm afraid to find out whether it's true; it feels like it might be. The future's hard to look forward to when the present seems like an immovable weight crushing your chest. There isn't anything to be worried about, but anxiety eats at my stomach, worse than the most potent acid; I'm half afraid it'll eat right through me and my innards will fall out of my sides, a red glob of mess, stinking and putrid from the rot that's infested them. I can't let this get me. It's been a long war, but I haven't lost any battles yet. I can't afford to; one lost battle and I'll never face another again.