it hurts. it hurts but you’ve got to be logical, adult, surgical about it. you’ve got to take a truth scalpel to your skin and you’ve got to crack your ribs open, reach your gloved fingers into your hollow chest cavity until you find the part that hurts. and then you’ve got to rip it out, an awful almighty yank that’ll have you gasping grasping to find pressure. your bloody gloved fingers will have to hold tight to their prize, it’ll want to dive right back in. throw it in a specimen jar. catalogue it. wipe the blood down off your wounded gaping chest. sew it up - with silver with gold. make sure you do it yourself, it’s the only way to make the stiches hold. and when you can stand, with your feet hip width apart and your shoulders back, pick up the jar with your hurt inside. it’ll be a tiny shriveled red thing. bisect it disect it. turn it over and curse it. analyze its little teeth and claws, run toxicology tests on its venom. master it, this dreadful greedy bile hurt. show it your silver and gold stitches. conquer it. and then, when the dusk begins to creep in, incinerate it. burn your hurt and the memory of it. run your fingers over your silver gold stitch scars.