With the help of one of his knives,
I could slice thick through the ceiling
where fluffy white cotton swells above me.
I can feel it in my mouth
fibers that wind and strangle my taste buds,
and I guess that's why everything tastes just off.
I'm using my hands as a guide,
I can't remember if my knuckles were always this knobby
and if my hands always feel airy and heavy
and not quite my own.
Sometimes I think that I can unbind myself
if I just remove the wrists.
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