A little cut. A little blood. A little relief. A screaming proof of the injured.
Burn the pads of fingertips with a graze of heat. They lose the painful sensation of memory's touch.
Touch reality and get burned. Burn with a hot whisper and reality loses touch.
The swirls of unique prints become smooth. Aptly numb to feel invisible with no identifying touch.
A burnt sheen of skin just glossed enough as proof you are alive.
It doesn't last forever. But long enough to freely move until the psychic pain resolves. The subtle trick of the injured.
Thin lines of red promise a story beneath the scab.
Numb swirls go unnoticed because some stories should not be told.
Hanging On No More
19 hours ago