The undercurrent can take my hands, play my nails like a violin, my gut like drum, my fists like a ballroom. You fit inside me, you know that? What can you speak of, what can you sing, without me?
A test is a measure of strength, and a narrative is a currency. Your hands are snails, and my hands are murderers. Sickening. Where is your drain? Where is your well that goes all the way down? Why is each of your extremities like a blunt knife, like a hammer, and is the world your anvil? No, your failure is your anvil, your giving up is your anvil, and you will beat yourself bloody over it.
©another
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