It feels like a cancer in my body. I can actually feel it growing. I hope and wish and long for death. I’ve called out to it. Asking it to lift me off this bed. I don’t want to open my eyes to the ache. I cry all the time. When I don’t weep, I think about how long I have to wait until I can. I walk the halls, the streets, holding my breath deep to not let it out. I scream to the cows at night, they won’t tell my secrets. They barley listen. They know how it feels when I cut my hips. A new razor blade feels like fire as it breaks skin. The faster I drag the more heat at my seat. The slower I drag the deeper the wound. I love this pain. I feel happy high. Then it passes. My head is heavy. I can’t focus, can’t even read lines from a book, a good book. It’s like I can feel a headache coming. Maybe I sense a bullet encroaching on my brain. Who knows? Why don’t I care?