I don't want to talk.

I want to be talked to, I want someone else to start the god damn conversations. Just something like, "Hi Jordan, how was your day?"

I feel like swearing, like screaming curse words at the top of my lungs.

I feel like punching something, someone.

I am far from fine, I am unhinged.

I've slept three hours in the past 36.

The fox who tells the stories of the shapeless man who can't outrun his own thoughts, followed by doubt, pity anger and sorrow.

A mystery like a ball of yarn which unravels from the inside out.

A curled fist, an empty palm, two tablets of Panadol.

I broke it, me. I took the little pieces and made an abomination then laughed myself to tears then cried myself to sleep.

You curl one finger at a time, you see the tension build in your wrist. The thumb covers the fingers, the thumb keeps the fingers in check, ready and waiting.

The mind will fall to pieces long before your body will, if it's poked and prodded in the right ways.