There is a place inside my head.
Within my body. Behind my eyes.
It is real.
A pit of cloying sand that drags at me. From nowhere.
To struggle is to be pulled faster. To fight? Meaningless.
So I sit.
No, no screams. The stuff fills my mouth. Turns my hands in to useless
Then I sink.
In a pitch black horror squeezed.
Turned and pressed every which way.
Nobody has, or can ever, or will ever see it but I.
Who perhaps looks a little wild.
As I suffocate in clean air.
© Tom Tide 2016