–. — -..-. — -.

My skin crawls fervent; horrified — and the sound it makes is Morse. The code intones the following words: “It’s over, it happened — It’s Done.” Some say comfort is luxury And my flesh? Derelict. But if will truly comes from ones heart, then the braille on my breast says "Go on."

scalpel, please

If wit cuts yours eviscerates and I am holding in my intestines, keeled over on ashen, craggy knees. One day, I may say you once shell-shocked me but the stitches in my side will have never gone away: you that sewed me whole will have split me open with a laugh.