Bruised knuckles. Sleepless nights. The static running through me denotes some type of psychotic energy, the light of the moon shot cataclysmic through my veins. Underneath every staircase lies a demon, mine drifts in unbidden and waits on my shoulder for the next fall. Thing is, I’m too tough to fall, steel won’t shatter, only box me in.
I like your chaotic yet resonant symmetry of prose here. Short yet meaningful. :-3Sometimes my existentialism leaks too. (Though assuredly in a different manner.)