Trembling Fingers

here comes that tickle in your throat, the panic on the thoughts of choking on your own vomit. you push your trembling fingers into the depths of your throat to relieve the itch where it sits, expecting to find warm, wet flesh, but instead you are met with hair tangled in knots.

you tug on a strand out of morbid curiosity, carving thin lines up your throat, splitting the flesh as a knife sliding along the juicy surface of a mango and hands pulling them apart, and it brings that metallic, sweet taste of blood. you tug the strands until you're yanking them, until your body burns a desperate plea for forgiveness and your throat now sits in ribbons of meaty flesh and skin, and the hair sits at your side with a sinister gleam.

it becomes a pattern, a ritual. each day of the week, swirling masses of hair soaking in the blood of your sins, sitting by your side and in your hands, between your fingers that tremble, stained red and achingly turned blue.