Pin ******, repeatedly, dance across the newly frayed skin, once more.
Just once.
Just twice.
Third time is the charm when your own cells ebb like malcontented waves, withering at my touch. Grasping vainly for some clarification of my recent actions, I return empty handed, again. When the world is muted, spinning faster than I could have thought possible my sullen, achy mind is quiet at last. No more pondering, no more desolate thoughts creeping, seething through my veins, only gasoline.

All the violence makes my body tired, while my mind falls back into a state of decay, decrepit, unruly, intrusive thoughts that have an equal or greater reaction than the last. Everlong is the circle in which I manage my pitiful party of one. Opaque is the blood that blooms from within me, ***** like I am. Grotesque like the soul it inhabits. Nothing hurts when your head is brimming, boiling over with vehemence, nothing hurts when you can't feel your hands as they shake. Nor can I feel how abandoned, betrayed, or how heavy my heart feels when I can't swallow my own saliva. When my eyes refuse to focus, when I'm just a shell of a human, when I am no longer coherent, that is my greatest peace.