Internal Conflict (Prose)

As hours rise above the façade, abraded skin sheds, silence is a slow rumbling railway track. I pray to no longer hide behind the cloudy things I write and say. Every tremor, murmur, bump, raises blonde hairs on anemic arms. It’s so fucking painful to dwell in hell, memories of you, to live as a woven shell of crafted lies. I die in between breaths, push to purge all the broken things, and so I write until you or I win the war.

Copyright © 2018 – Brian Nettles. All Rights Reserved

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