Wednesday, April 27, 2016


I was alive. The wet, open pain of my wounds let me know real damn quick.

Impulsively, I pulled away from the sticking carpet. Red, stiff, and brittle fibers encrusted the ruination of my favorite t-shirt.

A dusty mirrored surface tried to sell me beer, but I narrowed my focus. In reflection, I saw an anticlockwise and filthy gap in the skin of my cheek. Ragged edges oozed around stuck threads and filth. It ached in unventilated air.

All the other wounds appeared to scabbing over, stuck within the aftermath of my clothes.

There wasn’t much to be done or to feel so I walked out into the thick afternoon.

What more could I have done? My corpse was the only one still moving.

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