Cut

Surgical precision. I always liked that phrase. The sharpest metal passing over my body as I lie there, eager and nervous. You caress my skin and teach my flesh to regenerate. Seperating the dermis cell by cell, I'd clench my teeth and grasp the arm of my chair. You push me to go further, maybe it's time I push back. The leather behind me sticks to my back as I pace in my chair. Toes tapping the splintered hardwood. Fingers nestling cautiously around my leg, my thigh, my hip. Staring at the back of my eyelids I can only imagine what comes next. I feel the cold ridges around the handle. The cold sweat across my forehead dances across my lip. Yesterday it was a Sunday, nothing happened. Every Sunday I go to work and deal with the drudgery of social interaction. People who swarm to the mall and spill out their pockets on a whim. Them and their stupid bullshit. Their emotional bullshit. Rain falls from heaven and passes through our smog, our filth, our heap, our flaming pile of nothing. It collects human waste in the air and we put it right back into our system. My will on the tip of a blade, we all balance out in some way. Into the reservoirs they go, this living pollution in my bowl of chicken soup. Up there with the floating garbage, floating anger, the rising hatred and weightless jealousy. All the emotions of the world just lifted out of our heads and into the atmosphere. People commuting into the city and flying across the world, they can't keep track of these feelings. They build up inside and chew the matter until it is released into space. This is the worst kind of pollution. While I place this tool against my arm, I feel the weight of the world lift off of my shoulders. My passion spills out onto the floor. It creeps around my silhouette and fills the cracks in the wood, along with the gaps in my teeth. With a wide smile I am released into the air, to join up with the other human waste.