Acceptance; my flesh in torn fashion, gaping wounds, blood coating my tongue…I’m aware of the intricacy of each of my heart beats, I feel the synapses forming the thought, the cold wash of anxiety that freezes at the realization. Regeneration; my body convenes with my soul, numb, a white noise of existing…I’d practiced at honing my will, calling upon it, the searing stretch and bruising ache, stitching my flesh quiet…Death, himself, kisses the truth of my strength well, proud and stricken, he keeps me around for the insanity, the habitual flirtation, to see how close he can bring me, and how capable I am of saving myself.
E. A. O'Connell
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