A Proof on the Favor of Internal Bleeding

you can’t just do it, you know. something has to stab you electric through the side, or in the brain, or to the throbbing in your chest. something has to sit heavy. something has to shake you dizzy. something has to eat you a little wild, incite your crazy, infect your wounding, itch. you can’t just get up and do it, whatever it is, you know. except sometimes when you have to. and the having to is the itch. the need is the pull, the weight, the sizzling strike to your stubborn spine.

we’re immobile, didn’t you know? we’re immobile until animated. until licked and inserted to the sputtering socket. we’re marionettes, we’re wooden. we’re hung on invisible strings. we’re the effect of a billion buffeting factors, we’re the shape of our stacking conditions.

and you can’t just do it. you can’t just break that, you know. the puppet doesn’t cut its own strings. the puppet hangs limp. the puppet is dumb. the puppet is a blank stare, mute. the puppet is the whittled design of a knife called excuses.

the puppet needs its lightning, needs its need. the puppet needs a thorn pressed through its rough-hewed wooden side, pressed to its brain, pressed past the carven chest: something heavy, something sharp.

something – fire, rusty nail – incite my crazy, redden the wound, itch. shake me dizzy, eat me wild. pull me, flatten me: be the knife to shear the strings to free the limbs that tingle with this shock. something so far outside it’s from inside, rise and taunt me, electric provocation.

we’re not helpless, you know.

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