Growing pains.

It’s a painful feeling. It’s like when I would tell my mom my ribs felt like they were breaking under my skin, to which she would reassure, “growing pains”. Granted, I don’t think I’m growing anymore, but just the same, it’s an agony that cracks and twists in a place I can’t reach; all I can do is timber onto my bed and find a spot on the ceiling to draw rings around with a mental stylus until it’s gone. Were it last week, I would say I only had this feeling when I woke up unprepared for an exam, or from a dream in which a year of horrible misfortune flashed before me, leaving me unsure if I were yet awake. The feeling is that horrid certainty when something has been done, and that nothing can be undone. It is now this week. I don’t even remember why I ever took those exams, let alone worried about them. I ache for the growing pains, for they were the worst of my troubles. I no longer need daydreams to draw pictures on my ceiling; it is covered in blood. My dream of a thousand mistakes is all I want.

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