Scratch

I was breaking down before the day began. Before the sun broke through the night, the thoughts were breaking through my skin. They're the needle through the grooves, glitching as it moves past scratches in the surface. I'm scratching at my forehead, pulling on my hair, tearing at my seams. I'm ripped apart more than I seem. And that's saying a lot, considering I fall apart in public. On public transit among strangers, using shades to hide more than just my eyes. The train, the car, the bus are fine but I'm breaking down.