Written on the Floor at Three in the Morning

You want to sleep but you can't. You want to throw up but you can't.

You need to know things work they way you thought they did. You need to see something familiar.

But you have been wounded. Destroyed. You need to let it out; satisfy and transcend it, but there's no one you can destroy without repercussions and nothing you can destroy that you can easily replace. You can't wound any of your own things because you need them and can't afford to. So you wound yourself because you know you'll heal.

Blood slowly creates a disruption of cleanliness, sanity, color, perfection; surely flows regardless of pretense.

Crumpled in garbage and forgotten things, you watch as it dries on the floor, dries on your skin.

How can anything possibly matter?

Next week's article on cow noses!