two_cuts raze i woke up in the middle of the night flailing and shouting, which is nothing new. it's been going on for years, ever since the break-in rewired some things. i've come to accept that it's a thing that's going to go on happening until it doesn't happen anymore, assuming all the mutations in the feeling and placement of its happening are progress and not the math of near-sleep turned in on itself, braided with anxiety, never intending to resolve. this time was different. there was pain with the panic. there's never been pain before. it was in my right shoulder. i really am dying this time, i thought. i'm having a stroke. that's great. well, i had a good run. not everyone makes it this far. bon voyage. then i shook off some of the cobwebs and noticed in my flailing i'd made the nails on my left hand into weapons without knowing, making two cuts on my shoulder, one the length of half a finger, the other not as long. the longer and deeper of the two was wet with something that wasn't blood. they looked like the angry red cuts a cat's claws would make. that was what the pain was about. six hours of sleep later, what was a sharp sting in the dark is now little more than a dull invitation to laugh about what_we_do_while_we_sleep. 140520 ... raze now they look more like two dead worms baked by the sun, dried up to almost nothing, thin and hard, and whatever pain there was is long gone. 140524 ... raze they're mostly healed. what's left is something that sounds like a band name. the vague red reminders. 140608 ... raze i did this again, but it was only one cut this time, and i couldn't remember making it. i woke up to pain without panic, to a wrist that looked like i tried to slit it open with my own nail. don't do that if you can help it. it stings something fierce. 160229 what's it to you? who go blather from