Sometimes, I feel numb.
I feel as if my body was made of January metal and frostbite.
But still, my lungs burn hot.
Like a fire.
Like I had drank the bottle of bleach I had spent an hour staring at, contemplating the results of a sip.
My fingers felt absent.
They felt as if they bared weights.
They held up the weight of my worries with a knife, sliding down them, slowly peeling each layer of skin from them.
Alas, neither my bleeding appendages nor my weathered stature could have enthralled a rise out of me.
Because I was numb.
I was numb and staring at destructive things like they were toys, and at myself like I was a toy box.
While my body aches with the pain my mind creates, I am unaffected.
I am unfazed.
I sustain from the feeling of my burning skin like one might sustain from sex because I am numb.
My pain, my pleasure, all in the same, I must sustain for I cannot risk to feel again.
If I were to feel, then I would not have spent and hour contemplating drinking that bottle of bleach because it would have already made friends with the acid residing in my stomach and the destructive thoughts in my mind.
But that's just life, isn't it?
