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Cicada Days
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i can feel something inside me say
[ *  *  *  * ]
"It's hard for you to talk, chiquita, I know. But somehow, someway, you make them see you."

Father had said that, spine curling against the back of a chair. His smoothbore head had been lit by the stoic radiance of sun sliced into quarters by windowpane. Other warm bodies ambient in the background. Mother, sister, half a chicken glistening with oily microwave sweat.

A body melted out of background noise. The lines, features of the face seemed familiar. A landscape Tina could recall. Landscapes of ambient noises that were meaningless, even as they were weighty like meat in the throat. Weighty in the knife point contortion of a reckless laugh. That laugh had an intonation harsh as the unrefined edge of steel. That intonation now echoed, in this modern and present landscape, and seemed suddenly bigger, hollower for it.

This landscape was starkly devoid of features that jumped into focus. Bits and pieces were just that. Only two focal points, where all form and temperature seemed to converge over the bristly hairs of exposed skin. Eddies of air circulated to vortex, the birth of a hurricane. Tina's breath was heavy, outward bound. The current seemed to ripple, it settled like razors. Hurt. The room expanded, too grandiose in all directions. The horizons all out of sight, and muscles all out of shape. The shape could not define itself enough, even when tensed into fists on the axis of a weapon. They felt the shear of a body too close, and then another.

The distinct features far too heavy, formed shadows over what Tina could sketch into a face if the environment were friendlier in tone. Surely, how one carved a death mask. Carved for whomever. Tina continued to choke, breathing steadily. Stale, musty, toxic. Nothing else to breathe in but the boundaries where life distorted into flecks of charcoal. Burned like the acrid in Tina's lungs.

Her neck stiffened, loosened. Her chin found parallel with the ground, after the briefest of nods. Her mouth opened into a cavern, and she proclaimed silence. The briefest sketch of a fish. Burned into charcoal.

"..."
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Rückenfigur · One-on-one Therapy