The skin around my fingers is bleeding. Cuticles. That’s the right word, yeah? So yeah, my cuticles are bleeding so I suck and lick them like sweets. Like shiny red lollipops. Or your nipples. Yeah, your nipples. I know, I know, such perversity within the first few sentences, but it can’t be helped. I’m just a man. Just a lowly and predictable man. And things like this are what I do. That’s my excuse anyway. Unable to make sense of anything, I took a taxi to nowhere. Got out, walked around in circles and then came back again. Wrote letters then buried them in the backyard not unaware of the fact that one day someone will be burying me in a similar fashion. Tried catching a train into London not long after but freaked out because it felt as if all the atoms in and around me were slowly coming apart. Sometimes they do that. I can feel them on the brink of dissolving, and when the threat gets too much, I lose my mind and flower the way a woman flowers when she’s touched by God and touching herself with the light of the sun washing over her body so she shimmers like the ocean. Unable to cross the street as my mind’s in bloom, I lose control of my senses and you’re not there to help me. Unravelling at an alarming rate, I need you to shave off your pubic hair so I can eat it and feel whole. I need you to bruise my skin so I may heal. Move with me. Be my cheerleader. Be my dancing queen by dancing on the ashes of all those yesterdays and all those corpses we’re so glad to leave behind. Chew some food, swallow it, bring it up again, and then puke it into my mouth while I’m wrapped in a dressing gown clinging to the radiator for dear life so cold and on the verge of slipping into the void. Wipe away the beads of sweat from my brow and hum something to ease my woes. Some sea shanty perhaps, or a tune they play at carnivals. Wrap your arms around these bones and shake with me until we fall asleep and leave this limbo behind.