nails.
digging into my fore arms, or hammered deeper and deeper into my wrists.
The blood flow is catastrophic.
a pause...
like a grown man standing before a tsunami as it is about to crash down on insignificance...
a little girl curved over a pink frosting, vanilla sponge birthday cake with four ever burning candles, just before she blows them out.
the pianist's white gloved finger rubbing faintly against the ivory keys of the grand piano, the opening song of opening night.
an eruption...the fire hydrant off my body, expulsing the blood from my body...
and it will runneth all over this oak wood...this bed made for one,
this table set for twelve. |