back to thinking about the trauma of watching your own dissection, watching your own heart be ripped out of your chest and held up like the most precious thing you could ever fathom creating in your life (and it technically wasn’t even your creation was it? your parents gave you that heart, it’s only fitting they take it back). thinking about your own personal creation bursting out from your rib cage like you’re nothing but a husk, feeling the pressure of your esophagus be pulled taught by your own hands digging into torso, the feeling of watching your intestines spill out onto the floor and knowing there’s no one else around to pick up any of these pieces and shove them back inside yourself except for you and your own dead hands. stitching yourself closed and trying to heal something that will always be festering. Occtis, baby, I can’t wait to see you get worse and mentally detach from your body until it’s nothing more than your own personal science experiment.











