Graph paper: the mathematician’s diary
A grid spreads across my thighs. Unpigmented skin peeks from beneath the dried blood. It’s all erratic, random; pale near my pelvis, grim and dark near my knees.
As I examine them, I realize that I barely remember even remember it. What was I listening to? Was it silent? Was my door locked or unlocked? Did I know when I started that by the end I’d have a thousand skin-skimming pathetic excuses for cuts or did I think I’d have one huge gash that would kill me? Did I expect to cripple myself or cripple my mind? Did I expect these to start to scar?
No, but that’s all okay. My mind and body both know I can’t destroy myself right. I’ll be all patched up soon enough, except for “NEVER,” which looms half-hidden amongst the thunder of my thighs, quaking the world and spreading the pain with every step I take.
