Tuesday evening

Cover Image

It's acre and visceral; it's bittersweet.

It's human and yet it feels foreign. 

It's that metallic aftertaste that fills your mouth when it drips on your tongue.  

You bite hard on the soft tissue behind your lips. 

Your jaw hinges sideways, letting you feel the granules under your teeth. You know what will happen, you've seen the skin break before, time and again; blood will seep through, and it will taste like defeat. 

You know that you shouldn't give in, you shouldn't allow yourself to chew so hard to draw blood. But it's like a drug, like a masochistic impulse. It's an instinct, and it's addictive. 

It's not the physical pain that brings relief. You know that hurting yourself on purpose won't help anyone. 

You know it's irrational and impossible, but you want to do something. You can't just sit there, silently, watching, listening. You want to bite her lip so hard that you make her bleed. So hard that you can suck the blood out of her flesh, as if the pain cursing through her body is doing so via her blood. 

Blood falling, blood pouring, blood carrying away. Only the good can stay; the bad must flow out, it must be lost on the dark floor as it gathers into a dark puddle, as it dries until it's a macabre stain. 

It will be a remainder: of what's happened, of the distance she has gone, of her survival. 

Not of pain. 

I bite hard on the soft tissue behind my lips. 

I will leave a cut, it will stay and hurt for days. And once it fades, once it finally heals and I can't taste blood anymore, then I will bite again, harder, fiercely, with conviction. 

I need the reminder. 

I have to know I tried, know I did what I could. 

Created: Apr 25, 2017


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