Telegram.


What hath God wrought? Naught. Nothing. I don't know.
Strange feelings. Razor, translate the red pain.
Don't be scared. Trickle down, blood. Trickle slow.

"What's wrong? Your wrist." "My cat." The old refrain.
"Stop looking!" "Needs attention." No. Then why?
I don't know. Bandages close the wrong vein.

Drip. Hemorrhage. Drip. Coagulate. Drip. Sigh.
Stop me up. Razor understands. New braille.
Stop now, please. Blood obeys me and defies.

"What have you done?" the sirens seem to wail.
"Not nothing now," sounds my barbaric yawp.
"Come closer," sirens sing. "Just o'er the rail."

"Drown in this sweet pool. Good to the last drop."
What hath God wrought? Please just stop breathing. Stop.

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