none of the words come out right anymore. i’m mentally stuttering, and my engine is dying. my words aren’t flowing anymore, they’re clotting like blood on my skin. and sure, every so often i’ll pick at the scab and it might come back for a while, but it’ll dry and heal and never show again. because my work is often like a wound. my words are like blood; they only really come when i’m stumbling with a grazed knee, sobbing like a child. they only flow when i’m hurt. i start to beg for a bandage, wishing for the blood to stop. and when the blood stops, the pain stops, and then the words.