Buzz, Fuzz, and Fog.

I hate how she still makes my skin prickle; my brain buzzes around like hornets in a nest that's swinging to and fro, wildly at the stem. My limbs always take to shaking like that. A leash to my brain, and I can't even find the collar. It's probably spiked, and you've gotten so used to its presence that you hardly know it's there. I'm tired, even though I just woke up. I seek solace in dreams but usually I can just stall time for awhile, awakening with bad bubbling ulcers in my belly, or fuzz behind my eyes. Chief seemed to be okay with drifting in the fog. I can too, but the buzzing in my head won't let me appreciate it. Perhaps the collar tightens when the fog rolls in. All the small loopy words I wrote, neat and tightly as if to hide from a watching eye are still etched in my mind. Time passes and I still want them to dance from the page around me, congratulating me on my success. "You did it! Now let's get this mess cleaned up, we've got a big day ahead of us!" But I know, my conscious would be troubled forever, and then once again she holds that leash, strapped to her camera, and she yanks me around each time she finds something worth capturing. With a flash. Hot flash of white and my knees buckle. I can slam my hand into you, but you're already too far away. I am Chief, but he was always bigger than me. He got away. I didn't. Will I ever? I always tend to bathe in the waters that I wish to forget.