Ebola

All relaxed, with fucking nails bit to the quick. Bit to the quick, bit to the quick. And golden was the silence, like foam filling the mouth of the exempt. The burdened saw the damage, absorbed with our legs lost to heated-white lies. We remain to pull its frame from the ashen wreck of anxiety, blown to conspicuous borrowed attacks. We've got the nerve to live so low like this. To live like this, with nails bit to the quick and teething blood, so warm. The man who keeps sewing needles between his teeth prefabricates every spoken word, with no weaponry to lay in front of me. Robbed of my skills in social weaponry. Impending was the omen, no choice but to sever dead skin. And you reap what you sow to degrees you'll never know. Youʼll never fucking know.