makes raze he doesn't know what kind of car it is, but it's a convertible, and the top is down, and the sun is warm and heavy on his face, and the day is an open-ended question. he rides around with new friends who feel like old friends. he leans in to kiss one whose name he doesn't know, who probably doesn't know his name either, thinking maybe they both feel the same thing, this sensation he has of having slept on his heart in such a way that it too fell asleep, and now it's waking up, and it hurts more than anything has ever hurt before, but it lets him know he's alive. he's the only one who feels it. his new friend who isn't a friend anymore pulls away, and now he feels like he's wearing lipstick and everyone is looking at him and wondering what his problem is, and he can't even walk now. all he can do is sway. he's a catboat with a broken sail, and the sail still works somehow, still lets him move and be moved, and he wonders if the paresthesia will ever go away or if it's going to burn a hole right through his chest. maybe it's fire. maybe that's why it feels the way it feels. he wants to dig his nails into his heart until it stops burning, until it stops doing anything, but he can't get deep enough to touch it. there's too much muscle and fat and bone in his way. he knows people will ask about the scars. he knows what he'll tell them. "an itch i couldn't scratch." and that's all he'll say about it, when what he really wants to say is, "the sound you're hearing saying everything is fine is a lie. put your lips on mine and i'll tell you who you are." 210817 what's it to you? who go blather from