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Under Attack


It is constant.

It is an outer state of composure.

It is constant shade on the brightest afternoon in July.

It feels comparable to tightly choking another while being choked yourself.

It feels hysterical.

It feels like tirelessly working towards a rapidly approaching end date but being uninformed of when.

It feels helpless while refusing to ask for support.

It feels like backtracking while crossing off milestones.

It feels like the most wise battles are chosen while avoiding the one taking place internally.

It feels like disappointment, while not being surprised by the outcome.

It feels abandoning the closer someone gets.

Outwardly it is worn with lowered eyelids, both lips sucked inward, with the most faint left to right horizontal head nod.

The only reason that I am certain that I am still present is by my existing pulse and the few mood changes.

This is what it feels like to be at war with yourself.

Otherwise, it just is what it is.


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