itches.

it's cold. but that doesn't stop me from digging at my skin. this itch is unbearable, unsolvable. there is nothing i can do but wait. [and dig, and dig, and dig.] i wonder if i'll bleed before it's over. or if i'll buckle down in restraint. is it worth the agony to remain intact, or will my impulses win out and cause me to regret?

i have seen myself succumb to that illusion of immediate gratification. one, or two, or too many times. i don't know who i was then. ...nor do i know who i am now. does it matter? the only question is: where do we draw the line between a vision and a theory?

i start to scratch subconsciously.

stop it.

but if only i....

no. you'll just fuck it all up again.

maybe i need to fuck it up in order to fix it.

don't be naive. this isn't hollywood. in real life, the romantics always fail.

well, maybe....

the needle on my record jumps back and forth, back and forth, while i spend hours in the same corner of my mind. i need to leave. or at the very least, unplug that goddamned thing.

i feed my fire with fire. and i fight it with fuel. running backwards in a race against myself. it all makes sense, in that corner of my mind. it all makes sense, because how could it not? in a world where we live on a 45º angle, there is only one place to go. and here i am. there i am. here i go... falling off the edge one more time.

itch. itch.

my words are frozen in my mouth. any sudden movement, any breath of air, will compromise this stability.

itch. scratch...

binding my ankles and wrists, suffocating this temptation.

it begins to itch so horribly, i'd rather it were pain.
and so it is. needles, fire, sandpaper. i imagine my martyr's throne while these circumstances fade into the woodwork. burning, aching, stabbing, swelling. i have lost this reality, and i cannot tell it from the others. which blood is real?where is my hollywood?