I feel
antsy.
No.
I feel ants
under
my skin.
They come out
when I’m
sober,
and they
run over
my arms
where the veins
should be,
burying
themselves
inside of me.
I can’t
sit still,
knowing that
they’re in there,
turning me
into a
human
ant hill.
I need to
move.
No.
I need a
drink.

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