runaway

Puncture with a needle, intended for the threading bag but veered off course like a lion suddenly spotting a wounded zebra. See if there is enough power to stitch the hand up, if there is no pain. Is there? There is, but keep going anyway. Flesh, blood, human. Aliveness. Feel something other than the garbage inside, meant to be thrown out but too ghastly to even be near it. It has been too long. It reeks of one who strays often on the edge of a cliff. Does the garbage inside make one garbage outside too? It isn’t easy being worthless, even ask the chipped piece of cement or a grain of sand. Oh, they can’t talk, but they are not priceless. Does it matter? Of course it does. Does it matter? It doesn’t.