index | archives | notes Wednesday, Nov. 19, 2008 7:15 p.m. << [ About My Father ] >> There was a man, I remember, a small man with a large razor. I could see his bones poking through his sleeves, his delicate wrists and dark eyes. When I ran, he ran faster, and when he won, he cut me open. Slices everywhere, my arms, my legs, my face. I dripped oils, acrylics, watercolors. The people in my life said, "When you agree to exist in a society, you agree to get hurt." They said, "Contact is pain." They said, "If you don't like it, you don't have to stay." "This is the price of living." My arteries rained. << | x | >> whatiscopyright.org