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It was odd, strange to their touch, you know?
Her pain was as visible as a piece of thinned out silk, strung from axon to axon.
And her nerves spun like wheels in the dark, her younger brother driving like mad
against the norwegian winter; fierce. That's just what you're telling yourself; she could
hear it over and over again, repeated on invisible tape recorders, microphones leaking into hell
itself. I am smiling, I am always smiling. It's easier being bound to a wheelchair, you know?
Strange to anyone's touch is the pain nobody can see.

Her insides may be rotten, but what's that to you? Next week they'll give her a med that could potentially turn her lungs into ash, or stir her liver to soup. She'll take it. She'll do anything to get rid of the pain, the long nails turned inwards to tear up her intestinal walls, bleed her stomach open and cause secondary infections in every pore and system available. Oh, if only she had lupus. At least she'd be fashionable. Oh, if only she had a wheelchair. At least she'd be visible.

If only I were borderline, if only I were borderline; it's a pop song by now. She hums the tune.
But she's just got fire trailing up her organs, it's simply an inflammation nobody can cure. A condition no doctor can heal, the disease offering up the best of amazingly poisonous drugs. She says to her father; I will live now. What comes in 15 years, it travels without me.

And behind the protective walls of a tiny little fledgling house filled with stories; once roman land, she sits there safe. While her brother drives his suicidal mind against a life born of lies. Are we not all cut from the wood, cut differently, cut deeper or shallow? That forest, pitcher filled with silence, moving slowly against the wind in a country lost in time. He drives himself against walls, fills his lungs with stains and smoke, drinks his liver to oblivion. So they come to a full circle.

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