In the mornings, I see a face. I’m neither awake nor asleep. It’s that inbetween, where the shadows of subconscious can still take hold, but your mind is aware enough to pull you back - reminding you, Hey. The day is waiting for you, but in my case, it’s a face that awaits me.
The face is both a blur and an itch. I squint my eyes, but only find that it twists it more. I open them wider and I lose sight of the face altogether. It’s maddening, and I have half the mind to just grab the man and shake him.
Man.
It was the first time I ever referred to it as a gender. Him. Yes, that’s right. It is usually a man.
“And you said it was an itch?”
Yes.
“Tell me more about the itch.”
Well, it’s not good or bad. It’s kind of just there. Not an itch I can scratch, either. It’s like a reminder that face brings - like something imprinted on my brain that I’m supposed to know or be able to remember, but I just can’t. It
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