A woman or a girl or an empty shell on the beach, smelling of rotten salty flesh.
   She wanted to explain, she really did, but somehow it was just too hard.
                       It wasn't right.  Nothing was.
And she was damn tired of it.  Tired of saying that she was just really tense.  She was just too angry, at what, nothing.  Tired of saying and sighing thst she loved them all, and knowing they weren't really listenng.
                       It jusn't wasn't right.  Never was.
There were pills and guns and a fascinating blade of shining silverchrome, shining and rusty at the tip where she had let the blood dry.  A long hole, a line that she'd dregded out, a scab to pick at and chew and at least she'd know she was real.  Bleeding.
                                                                              Words were too much sound was too much caring just took too much effort.
She had been in love once, or was pretty sure she had.  There had been a lot of people that she said she loved and she did, she really did, but in a faint shimmering way.  Sun on the hood of the car, an ice cube melting in the pit above the clavicle, rain that was too warm to be refreshing but strange and interestig just the same.
           Experiments.  That's all.  So sad to admit it, so she wouldn't.
                         She hated herself, a dark smoldering knot in her gut that got tighter and tighter as the fibers burned, cherry.
 She loved heavy and thick if she could make herself.  Data.  She needed information.
                         Tears and mucous and shame choked her, and she didn't really want to cough, out the passageway like a Pinkerton at a wildness under the bridge.  But it's a reflex, you know, you don't really think about it before you do it.
When it happened, it was confused and dizzy and she couldn't see quite all the edges.  And it hadn't been his fault, he thought she wanted it that way, he thought she had given him a sign before that over rode all of the later protestations.  it hadn't been his fault, he told her.  She asked for it.  He told her that once and she was too weak to not believe him.
 
                                               And so it would happen again.  Different  in peculiarities but the same in the most painful way.

And so on, it went.  But she broke after a while.  Everything does.  What line?  "...a crack in everything...that's how the light gets in..."              It was dark though, when she fell on her sword and bit that boy's tongue tip off and swallowed it with all of his anger.

So weak, and then the silence.  The medication that rerouted her impulses and shut her down and made her crave her own blood.  The blood is the life.  Somewhere, everywhere.