He cut himself shaving.
It was a sting, but it was alright.
It was perhaps too alright.
His hands keep shaking, his chest
keeps feeling empty. Can’t seem to
focus anymore.
Shaving needs focus. Gliding a blade
around his neck. The crackle of hair and
the bouncing blade.
He had walked to the gas station. Pretending to be
alone. Reasoning everything in the silence of the
murmuring suburbia.
“How did I end up here?”
“How could I be so foolish?”
The scent of petrol reminded him of the aftershave.
He had cut himself.
It stung.
He dropped the cans. Liquid poured. Money moved.
He started walking back.
He wished time worked that way.
He felt a sudden warmth at his feet.
He thought it was the friction.
Realising that he kept nearing his destination at a
pace too quick for his liking, he sat on the sidewalk.
His hands felt colder.
A cigarette appeared from his pocket.
The can was sweating.
The sun was now in his eyes.
The smoke helped a bit.
Feeling even more lightheaded.
Something hurt but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Something about the smoke didn’t please him.
He turned at his watch.
“17:17”
How could he have been so foolish?
The gasoline lit his hands up.
His hands in brilliant blue flames.
He stared at them.
His words came out of his throat.
When I found him.
The blood had reached his feet.
He muttered something.
“Smoke in my eyes”
He had cut himself.
But I am not sure if it stung.