Stitches in braille.

The blade had let on to nothing
of shapes that were to come.
Visions of my long held torment
disintegrated in the burning etch
of each unique cut by the knife.

 
Beneath a tourniquet of my weight,
wrapped in sheets like butchered meat.
With life my only fear to reap —
I waited there to die.

 
When the spire had kissed my blood,
it did not call my heart to arms;
The knife had sliced away my ear,
and carved sweet nothings in my skin.

 
Unlike six fatal words that
have baned my existence
and which one day will surely kill me —
when I finally do headbut the sidewalk,
or throw myself in front of a train —
when I finally do hear just six words
and each word six million times.

 
I was healed by a needle.
The relative sheer bliss of this —
stab wounds all across my chest —
so immense is this gap in difference
to the agony I’ve known so well;
the power to stop my furby —
must obliterate a diamond.
Don’t ever misthink yourself for it.


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