I absolutely demand to wring every drop, every drop, though. Explosions of pain make my eye not work. Wake up, unable to recall why, what the pain is, why it is there, or who I am, for several minutes, where she is, what has happened. Pushing my face against this phantom blade edge is more than a habit now; I get surges from it, cartoon electricity, and once again I can put my fists up to the sky and fucking threaten it. It’s been twenty years since I was allowed to feel. It’s the first time I’ve ever been this. I can’t apologize for the thing I am doing because it’s already thunderously right. It’s already been right, forever, as hot as the blood is and the way it pushes against my head, forcing it to beat in time with the surges. My smile splits in two and opens outward, which is the only way it can express itself anymore, and though there is blood and now eight more sets of teeth it is an honest wrenching slash of unfiltered ecstasy, finally, even if only for that flash of an instant. All around me are people, some are blood filled clocks. Some get nervous and I want to dash at them, catch them and press them against the blood that’s pounding against the inside of my chest, where my arms hold it back, and the heat makes everything turn to paper. Everyone sweats and tries feebly to escape, except me, because I’ve pushed my face into quadrants that retain the body’s energy, and there I am able to control it, and to push my fists against the sky, and fucking threaten it, while I grip everything underneath me with my thighs and scream “NO”


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