A Billion Burning Dreams

and when the work is finished he calls it, “Regret.” And yet, the heat released when the epidermis is cleaved, like cleavers falling in his mind to tenderize his peace, is addicting. He finds relief in the release of adrenaline, the power when his fear is eased gives him a false sense of control. But when he runs out of room on his thighs, he moves to wrist. Harder to hide, but he can’t resist. So he cuts. Drags the razor, or scissor, or anything in reach, across the space between his hand and elbow. No one will know. He’ll keep it up his sleeve, the same one he wears his heart on, until the blood seeps through to the surface, like his pain. Derelicts strewn among the wreckage, but pain always sends search parties. Searching for survivors

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