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I wonder if they sell any, or if people just roll their eyes and order a mojito without debasing language or their thirst. But I can’t talk about you without crying, and I get very tired of it. I didn’t worry about you as much as I should, but I’ve always been selfish. It’s me trying to make up for lost time, which as we know, is a commodity which only goes one way. I shall start wherever I find closest and journey onward. I could have written and delivered it, wishing a happy holiday (whichever one was nearest at the time) or scrounging up aspects of my life to dress up, emblazon and be proud of, but the curtain of fallen seconds prevented me from seeing those noteworthy accomplishments and I swore only to write when I had something worth saying.

It seems like a thing that you have to be drunk already to order properly. Three months should make the tears go away, I think. The letter was never written, and the recipient is now too late to receive it. I could also note the times lost to ennui and drink, for they were many and stretched on, creating only double their length with how little I enjoyed them.

My wrists burn, I wonder if they’re bleeding and it’s so dark everywhere, what if the water is bloody and red and I’m soaking it all in and recycling it back through myself, filtering in and out until everything equalizes, what if there’s nutrients in the water so I can’t die and they keep me here for a week like a body in a glass jar, waiting for me to move…I wonder how much of this water is my tears, how much of this water is me. My torso is stinging and the first bits reach my chin and I’ve still forgotten how to cry, but I’m trying, I’m trying to feel anything that isn’t a classroom experiment and I’d welcome being spread out on a table with a knife in me just to know that I once identified as a human being instead of a pickled mass of limbs and why is this happening now?

Maybe I’ll slowly dissolve into a gelatin slurry and they’ll garnish me with parsley and dip in cups to taste how scared I am, like I’m dessert, like I’m art or else why would someone keep a person tied up in a tub like this? Those chemicals like science class with scalpels on limp piles of what was once a frog or a pig but is now a mutilated mess of labeled bones and soft organs, I know this smell and I know that feeling. Why can I smell the onset of death when it could have been over so much easier, so much earlier, what if there’s other things in here with me, what if that wasn’t my hair I was feeling and my tears I was floating in all this time? My eyes are stinging, they might be open or closed I can’t tell anymore, but the drip is faster or maybe I’m slower, and the water is reaching to my lips or I’m sinking and not fighting anymore, maybe I’m not special but I’m just the next one, the fresh one, the experiment of how long until someone stops fighting. I’m flying coach to visit my mother in the hospital. I could change this place if I wanted, but then I would have to care.

The straps should have loosened by now, they seem to be regular fabric. I’ve counted, and given up, and lost which tens of thousands I’m in, or I guess fallen asleep. Like public pools at gyms or at schools, it always felt so medical, the smell that covers up humanity and pretends there’s no sickness around, it becomes its own banner for denial. Something to mask the revulsion we fear in the world, each other. It burns in my eyes and soaks into my hair…Which is coming out. I shouldn’t breathe so hard because I don’t know if the air…If they thought I was dead, they wouldn’t gag me. My head is pounding in its own rhythm, I guess it’s my blood and my heart and it used to be fast but now it’s slower than the dripping sound, sometimes it hurts so bad I clench up and it feels like my skin is bursting and scraping off against the straps, how can I feel so shriveled and bloated at the same time?

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