Could my self consciousness finally have manifested in a pair of staples between my lips? From your looks and my inactivity and almost crippling silence, I think so. There's a whirlwind around me, coerced confusion, but thoughts heavy like dully shining rocks in my gut ground me, keep those staples, and my lips, firmly together like you're dark blood running deeper. You're looking at me questioningly and anxiously from the corner of your eye as I'm wondering about coke or alcohol or fuck, a pair of pliers. Sidle up next to me, just a hand on my arm. I wonder when exactly it got this bad.