words before they stop being meaningful
and sharp with the sharpness
only pain can have.
Pain is such an innocent knife.
It looks so harmless you'd never believe
it can cut so deeply into your skin and bones.
How is it possible that I can still run?
How can my shattered bones still carry
me around, without protesting, with the
soundless obedience that characterizes
everything in me? How the fucking fuck
is it possible that I still define myself in
terms of your imaginary position on