Closed eyes. There’s not much to see here. Just to feel. Too much to feel.

Closed veins. If I don’t keep them pinched, all my blood might pour out like the fountain of youth that can choke you in its disguised promises.

Closed doors. What if someone comes in and sees me like this? There is shame enough in existence.

Closed legs. There are too many ghosts of ignominious sensations that live between them. No need for more.

Closed. Until they open the casket and see my intestines spilling out of my body. I was never as closed as they wanted to believe. Not until they forced their hands in and pulled out whatever soul was left inside. After that, I had no option but to close. There’s only so long spirits can haunt abandoned houses.

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