I stand alone and aside. From everyone.
Mouthless and silent. I can't decide... if I should keep putrescent hands stuffed into too shallow pockets. Or not. Leaving them uncovered just seems like a inconsiderate idea. I pull them out and stare at them like they're caught fire. Which is to say, with a great intensity. I wonder just how many people I could make ill with but a touch. A gentle caress of calloused fingers to bring the sweeping winds of sickness down. How many people who recall my hands on their arm-- their leg, their chest, their hair, their face, their throat-- would be consumed by nausea at the conjuration of memory?
With a mouth wiped clean off my face, I can't ask.
I wouldn't, even if I had the voice.
9:53 p.m. - 2014-11-13
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