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Molten metal sweeps through my nervous system, covering me in a shield while simultaneously reducing me to jumping limbs and salty screams in the worst way. I lay, clenched in defeat, waiting out the worst Wednesday in years hoping an empty quiet death covers me soon with grayer blankets. I am followed by chimes of "are you tired? You look tired" as if mentioning it will flush my cheeks with anything but shame. 24 and dying the slow fight, dying nonetheless. My fingers twitch marking out unnecessary tendons snapping like double bass strings with a smoke between them, I see his face notice with a rush of questions stunted by crooked teeth and timid eyes.