i want to be as indiscernible as all my aches — as indefinite as the sorrows pressing down on my breastbone. i want to hush all the pain: loud, red, screaming — burning its way out of my throat. i want to crawl inside my own skin, until i feel nothing vaguely human — until bones and muscles dissolve into scattered, tender wounds. i want riddled endings; i want limbs taken down in such secrecy. i want the eeriness of my quiet hurting. i want to implode.