sometimes i have trouble believing i'm real.
The brilliant, bright piece of white paper barely touches your hands. You don't want to ruin it with your dirty fingertips, with filth sticking to them like a second skin. It's blood. You know as much, but when it's dried and browned like this, it's better for you to think that it isn't.
Each word is perfect, beautiful and clean. Your eyes haven't seen letters that weren't marked with crimson fill in so long that the sight of these black, bold words seems almost painfully uplifting, it's good but you have to grind your teeth a little for you to make sure. Bittersweet, you decide.
It brings you much happiness to think the word came to you without the help of someone screaming in your face and waving through glass walls.
"C'mon, what's this? You don't know, what a fucking dumbass, he doesn't know!”
You can't quite string together what the words mean. You just know it doesn't feel nice.
Maybe in endless hours worrying what anything means you forgot what everything means. You don’t want to think anymore. Even after all the physical trials, putting your body to absolute ruin, the rushing bile burning your insides as you were pushed to a limit determined not by your pain but whenever you found you could collapsed. Finding defeat felt good, felt like home.
You want something, it’s just too far for you to reach. You don’t want to think about it.
But it burrows into you. At night you can’t sleep. They notice and give you your first blanket since you started failing but even then it doesn’t mean anything. You still cant sleep, you still refuse to think.
You must be insane. Because it’s ingrained for you to think, you’re never not thinking.
They’re still moving. Your fingers. On the wooden planks where you rest your body for sleep, the metal nubs where the nails stick out, that’s where they move. Four fingers rest themselves on four stubs and run from the tips to the first knuckle. There are valleys in your skin. The stickiness makes the note easier to grab, where you left it, under the blanket.
You don’t know why they haven’t noticed it yet, it’s so bright and so pure and you are so lost and so filthy. Everything you’ve touched is filthy, and that’s everywhere they’ve watched you. The contrast should be insane.
You are so insane.
But reason is your friend, even now. Insanity is the enemy, should be shot down with that silver gun they think you don’t know about. They should be shot.
Something hits you in the back of your head. You don’t wince and bring your thumb to the already throbbing bump. It comes away red.
You keep forgetting to wish for something.
You keep forgetting that you forgot to wish for something.
You don’t know if you even forgot anything at all.