water memory
water has memory, so how about this.
my spine instinctively curls inwards. that way i take up less space. when i look at people i do it furtively, like i am doing something immoral something wrong. i am jumpy and hyper aware of my surroundings. i train myself into stillness when i am afraid. a rabbits heart beats in my chest, red and pulpy and bloody. it skitters and jumps, and stains my bones with fear that grows in the very marrow of myself. i know i look too visibly afraid. i know it's not right to jump when someone says my name, to snap my book shut when someone walks past. i am set on a hair trigger. the snap of a twig will set me fleeing. when i die, i want it to be slow and deliberate. i want to feel the knife in my gut and i want to outrun that water memory, want to push down the urge to run. my eyes will dilate, slowly. and my last breaths will not become rushed.