septicemia

You arrived and I found this rusted wire twisted and jammed up just under my fingertip. Days later I felt the coming soreness of its pink infection. Now, slowly, my sickened hand grows to be a burden. Often I must carry it in the other. This seems, I think, to suggest an offering of some over-ripe fruit. This amuses me; I sometimes laugh excessively. I’ve lost my balance, I fear, I’m losing my senses.

Nights, my mind is impish in its desire—I cannot rid it of this desire—to inspect the pain and tongue it over. To practice, hour by hour, attention paid to each
revolting nerve. In time, the pain itself grows metallic and splinters outwards and I never sleep but feverishly and always with your name at the sharp point dug into my flesh.

I’m losing, no I can’t lower my voice, I’ve lost my senses again, you see, it won’t let me sleep. My ears are always filled with the pulse of the rush of the blood up against it. I have no more silence. no I cannot just remove it, idiot,
or else we all would, wouldn’t we?