I’m
fairly certain that
if you
look at
me too
closely, I will break into
too many
pieces.
It’ll be
enough for
you to
count – my existence is
not
remarkable enough
to
warrant infinity – but
the
number will
be high
enough so that you
will
regret
having
to count it.
If you
have an interest
in your
hands not
being
cut
and
bleeding and
having
wounds of
the sort
that
never
really stop running with
blood
and that
open up
for no good reason
at the
most
inconvenient
times, you
wouldn’t
even
dare
letting me crack,
let
alone shatter.
But that
would involve averting your
eyes
entirely, stepping back,
telling
yourself
“nothing
to see here,
nothing
to even try to forget”
and
you’re only human.
We both
know
how well
that would work.
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