an extract from
Some Senses are Dull
I find I'm chewing on my lip again and it starts to sting. I wipe the blood away and watch a droplet as it slides along my finger, following the curves and lines of my skin, leaving a faint stain of carmine in its wake. Everyone stands and I decide to bite down harder, to mould the pain into something similar to sadness, but it just makes me look constipated.