Another thing I wrote and didn't publish. Publish now.
__________________
I woke up yesterday crying and I've been crying ever since. My face is blank but my eyes are streaming like a widow who's just had a facial. I asked them why but they won't say. Bastards.
I've been feeling pressure building inside me for days. Not explosive steam pressure, smooth relentless pressure of sheets of green water, death soup, pushing against a crumbling tired dam.
My water table is rising. I'm a skin bag now and every step I take squelches. When it reached my throat yesterday I clammed up, trying to choke it back, but I had to breathe sometime and it overflowed past those blocks. Today it reached my eyes and they were the ones to crack. They gave out on me and leaked, the weak bastards. With each lurch forward the cold water sloshes against my sockets and blurps out of the bulging lids.
Bits of me sail with it as the stream lurches out, escaping the mineral traces that make even the weak skin bag I am more than water. Sweeps and seeps away the molecules of flavour and flecks of cheer suspended in even a wet thing like me. Straight out of my traitor eyes my core goes, lost in osmosis as my diluted self pools on the ground.
I can't find the spring the water comes from, but I know it's deep and strong enough to fill me up again and again, rinsing my innards transparent and taut as tumours. The water passing through me grinds me smooth. Nothing but a tubeworm in the vent.
Maybe my eyes know where the spring begins, the source of the torrent reaming me out. But the flimsy bastards wouldn't tell me, would never help me.
My last levee against the formless flood and they quit.
Save yourselves if you like, fuckers: you'll not last long teteering on the flow leaving me. You'll fall, and lie, and molder like sad olives in the puddle that was us before you cracked.
