[Content Warning: suicide]

it itched. correction: it itches. this story was simply told in the preterite tense because it was too late by the time you got around to reading it, to do anything about the itch; it itched.

the remembered skin was a playground turned into a minefield. the other way around maybe. every time you would remember it, every time it brushed against something fleetingly, an itch would begin. blood is plentiful and losing a few drops was less than a nuisance but it begun an itch and was scratched until the remembered feet were responsible for pushing the skin into walls, pillars, and doors, leaving little heart-shaped marks on the wallpaper. it itched.

a disembodied lolling tongue, a remembered row of teeth, the roof of a mouth: “at least it feels like something,” a voice said. the voice was unremembered and when it repeated itself a few times it belonged somewhere near the throat and harpstrings. it belonged somewhere. the false body sat down once more on the chaiselongue and drew lines between its organs and aspects to make sure they were all there for disposal; they had nowhere else to go; it itched.

any remembered cell is good enough to do music with, if other parts are there. there is really no music.

it should have been impossible, the remembered brain thought, for a tongue to itch, but it did. the tongue had tigerstripes from where no-one could check – most things where no-one could check were marrwhite with tigerstripes and cigarette burns – now everything could be checked due to the lack of control. a few drops were uncontrolled, but it wasn’t that. the false body shook. its components back-and-forthed.

the brain just like the body was false, the brain was the opposite of true, the brain had zero veracity, the brain was wrong to be called the, ‘the’ at all is wrong. the brain was a million components and they were not singing in chorus at all. a small part of the brain – remembered, perhaps – screamed ‘pain’.

do you know what stops an itch? an oncoming train. i’m sorry but there is about to be an accident.



yes i will and no.

pain translated itself. first into blood, then blood translated itself into feelings. the body, other than all the colour red, was not sanguine. it itched.

the walk here was nice. surprisingly quiet and warm. remembered bare feet. the remembered feet felt the splinters in the wood going the wrong way, the wrong way entirely, in order for them to pierce the skin like they should the body would have had to walk the other way. the splinters stayed where they were.

the cold could would have eaten its way into underneath toenails had it been winter. Would that it were winter to stop this mission, should have gone online in winter for the two-year mark to hit in winter again, should have moved hemispheres, if you’re still listening.

this death is not a remembered death. there is unimportance and more blood than ink. go home.

you have written sad words about each of the constituents and you have done the maths on blackboards with white crayons that get dust in a pair of unremembered lungs: it itched.

the cold refrained from eating its way anywhere, and the bugs crawled on the midsummer grass and the little wooden protrusion spoke of traffic here.

the remembered guilt which was a part of the brain said, not like this. there were arguments for and against and all the other parts, not a single cell, could listen. should/would, could not. the buttons were offline, like most things. should have had electricity again.

this story, was written. this body, had a name, once. maybe you will remember it long enough to write it down somewhere, maybe you will remember it.