I pull out a fresh blade and unscrew the waist to loosen the old. I find in metal a chill slick comfort something stable, something bold cold as blood and hot as the fever in my hands that tremble to touch you. I'm going to slice this day apart make it right, force it in, turn its rancid acrid acid flow into a burn that bears witness. and when it does, I will humiliate it in stocks, I will rip its clothes to the fire and let those flames martyr. and yet, it has this torture coming. it's earned every throbbing cut of the arm, each bloody swell found at the seam, each sweet-voiced scream.