and my mouth is a blanket of fur matted with blood that leaks down the sides, over my chin, dribbling onto my fingers, sticky like the sap of a fir tree and everywhere i put my hands i can’t get rid of it, that stale taste of something having died in there and it’s rotting down my throat and i would choke on it if it didn’t have your name all over it, if i didn’t know your name but i do and i trip over a piece of scrap metal and i scrape my knee, break my arm and i would do it all over again if only to stop the clots from jamming up my lungs to steal your name from me