There are three hundred and eighteen veins contained within the human body.

I feel the insides of my hands burn, itching, scratching, wanting, wanting. I don’t know how to get rid of the urges pressing into the top layer of my skin, sent from within the organ that I’m at mercy to.

I thought you were supposed to help me.

There are rich, deep, colorful colors spilling onto ceramic. It’s the same colors as the hearts you drew as a kid.
It’s intentional and it hurts more than scrapping your knees on concrete, except you aren’t a kid anymore.

Knees bent and pressed uncomfortably into the dirty floor, hands clutched onto silver, wrapped around desperately onto the cause of it all, head bowed low to the heart, pray, pray, pray. Pray for the release of it, pray for the freedom silver holds, pray for the urges to press deep into your skin, pray for your mercy.
How do you know who to pray for when your body is turning against you?

There are three hundred and eighteen veins contained within the human body. How do you count them all?

Oh god, please. Release me.




go back?