2001-05-01 || 10:37 a.m.

|| antiseptic ||

ow. phantom burns and bruises. a funny pain on my right side. this scab on my finger won't heal. i catch it on seat belts, on the corners of cd cases. it bleeds and i let it. i don't stop anymore to find band-aids or run it under water and clean it out with soap and antiseptic. it has turned a funny color, surrounded by angry pink. infected. it is painful to the touch.

you have turned a funny color, surrounded by angry pink, although you are the master of camouflage. you wear plaid and corduroy, browns and reds, comb your hair to the side and then ruffle it up.

(your pink is showing.)

the way you are hunched over. the way your hands shake. the way you look at me for too long and then look away, down at your hands. your cuticles are chewed raw. your fingernails are too long. your knuckles are dry and cracked. you speak and i smell the alcohol on your breath, the antiseptic that was supposed to make you heal. it doesn't really heal things, does it. it prolongs the symptoms. keeps everything humming in a state of acute infection. all of your energy drawn together in a boxer's stance, worn down and beaten and ready for the signal to go down for the count.

i would offer you a band-aid if i thought it would help matters.

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