An exchange of two surfaces both dosed high with hormones.
Policies, mine, prevent myself from committing malpractice.
Surviving a grand opening, myself takes in patients, providing the most basic.
Dying is so scary and bad.
Myself was made to make difficult the possibility of dying. How, in the face born of intention, maintaining biological life, could the desire to die make sense.
You should leave your phone at home and go out for a walk. It is fall. The leaves are still red, and it isn’t too cold. When light from sun is set at such an angle, things are so gorgeous outside. This will remind you of how gorgeous things are inside.
How in the face: desire is the proliferation of exchanges.
Myself, bearing bottomless sex organs suitable for affection, becomes a welcome site for any other that looks me over.
The mouth of my lover’s hospital produces spit. My hospital’s opening mouth makes room to receive the spit.
By way of a glance, my hospital demands my lover’s hospital to coil, grasp around my throat. The hospital responds accordingly. Is there anything I cannot internalize. I have
stopped going to the doctor’s since a misdiagnosis. My teeth hurt, and I will keep them. My headaches, occurring more and more frequently, hurt. I will keep them. When reconstruction seems impossible, one must be willing to feel lots of pain. I do not like pain. I want for the grip of my lover
to hold, even tighten, in order that I might be held. My desires slowing in order that I might
part unperished, biologically refuse destruction. Displaced grip instead arresting my quick belly.