it starts with a shiver beneath the skin, a cold that crawls through bone- and then strikes:
a surge, a flood, a voice not my own.
thoughts that crash like waves against the skull,
each one darker, louder, meaner.
a storm that is mine, yet never quite me, tearing me loose at the seams.
but the rage is brief, and silence awaits,
leaving a drizzle that never stops, and air too thick to breathe.