REM

There is a wound on my arm- from the cigarette I put out on it while I was high. I can both see and feel it now. At this moment I will do nothing, for in the morning I may be a different person and see things as they should be and not as they are right now. Seems like it should not be there, I have not smoked in years- - - and yet there it is and festering at that.

Perhaps I will wake happy- clean and medicate the wound, even hope it will heal. Maybe I will wake up and be exactly who I have been as of late- cover it and do nothing, secretly trying to do the mental math on how long it will be until it will kill me. I could easily rid myself of the wonder and just go back to the drug that got me here in the first place; listen to the resolve of shooting off the arm while listening to something obscure by Tiny Tim, and live stream the blood mixing with the water in the sink. I may even want to find out how this less-than came to be.

Since humans seem to often say, things will look different in the morning- I guess I will see how it looks in the morrow and decide then.