Seventh attempt to feel. Enough water-like substance formed heavy beads in each eye socket to match the sizeable, pre-existing knots comprising my stomach. Gravity kicked in; a solitary tear falling first from the left duct, then the right. I fell alongside them. Outside myself, I became myself. Standing resurrected, my broken body in full view: I could not feel anything, at all. Except pain. I pressed the blade's sharpened edge against the smooth, un-tanned belly of my August sun-darkened arm. No, no. Arms; first the left, then the right. These fragile limbs, now barely attached to wrists currently bent in such awkward typing positions, met their limits; this numbing razor met my innermost workings. Hard, deep gashes, & deeper still... I smiled, my veins bursting, as blood hit air. Metamorphosis. Unobtainable blue forever turning sweet, dark red. I do not feel anything, at all. Except relief. Hearts drawn on paper conceal my frozen, cardiovascular time-bomb previously cycling the same hemoglobin now revealed to all six senses; first through the left ventricle, then the right. Lungs, contracting. Plasma, pumping. Lungs, expanding. I feel everything, all at once. Except sorry.
