Brief stream of consciousness-esque exercise to get back in the flow of writing; it's been a while.
Palms pressed against my eyes, I escape into a void. A void of life, of emotion, hidden inside my mind. A corner so far back that if I pull my knees up to my chest, the light stops just short of my outstretched toes.
My nails curl into my palms; biting into my flesh, spreading heat under my skin. Lava floes burn trails where the knives extending from my fingertips have sliced fresh canals. I shed this skin, and in its place flourishes a fresh new coat of life.
Over and over I peel back the layers and let the warmth wash over me, but the comfort is brief. I can only cover my eyes for so long before I have to vacate my corner and step into the light, letting it saturate first my toes and then the rest of me. It is warm, but the heat of blazing summer could never compete with the fire tracts.