I cut my thumb.

And I just remembered how -- I broke it on a vase in the backseat of my car.
Weeks have passed, two, I think, and I haven't removed the glass yet.

I've been busy dissaraying my life. In order to build a stronger foundation, I say, when everyone asks.
When you ask.

My sister called me yesterday.
She had something she wanted to say to me -- the first time she'd ever called me with this sort of intent.
She has laryngitis. I could barely understand her. I answered my phone while I was sitting on the toilet in a museum.

A poetry reading was beginning in the basement as she called. The reader kept saying Lost Privilege.
I couldn't spell privilege right in my journal. I misspelled it while typing it here.

Cutting my thumb out of clumsy, allowing the blood to dry however it wants
and then sticking it up to incredible incredulous context.

I'm struggling with objectification vs. remainder reminder of the self.

Juggling, jiggling, fiddling, waddling, toddling, tracking and backtracking the self.

Here I present the blood I lost and left. How little of it and how little quick the repair.