stitching this body together is probably not enough. are you falling apart too? frantic pulls of bloody thread, the fear of stopping, the determination to win over dark matter voices. desperately i yank the thread through another weeping hole in my edges. i don’t want to be in pieces. i can’t risk them seeing me that way. they want a perfect portrait, they “just want me to be happy”. do body pieces feel happiness? are you happy?

each pulls on its anchors, and i yank the corset together. keep those organs in, glue down that peeling paint, hold hold holdholdholdholdholdhold. i don’t think it’s enough, i can’t hold back this force, it’s only so long before it all flies apart. will i go supernova or just die like a red dwarf? if i’m burning out, am i just paper or is there dynamite at the end? am i a candle or a firework? neither, i know i’m just a body in the end. well, in the real end i’ll just be…. quark soup. completely dissociated.

i cannot hold back the force of rejection.