Plastic bag, cuticle cutter, pencil, scissors.
our exposed flesh we created ourselves doesn't hurt; it feels like a void compressed with rusty nails the rusty nails hurt so much it became a new obsessive comfort you can't let go; yet there is still a human half of you in slumber slumber from the pain that is nonexistent as we gaslight ourselves; the pain isn't there. We believe our lies, making the true us dormant, as beautiful and ugly as poetry it seems
