Nothing about pain and despair is ever in the slightest bit warm, no matter their original temperature everything ends up cold, cold, cold. Hot tears run and dry, and where it trails it feels like ice. And sometimes it feels like it’s acid, leaving behind a permanent trail I can never remove. 

Under the covers, curled like a ball, everything is cold. As if instead of warmth, I radiate cold. It doesn’t make sense. But neither does anything else.  

Not the sudden appearance of bees in my head, their soft fuzzy bodies irritating the insides of my skull. Not the sudden crippling inability to communicate. Or the sudden disappearance of light. Nothing makes sense.

Ride it out.

On a loop. Rideitoutrideitoutrideitout. Repeat in threes. The pattern helps.

Breaths inhaled and exhaled.