![]() ![]() But you can’t complain because remember? You asked for this. That slowly, slowly, you’re dying from a thousand invisible cuts derived from slashes made by the surgeon’s swift, sharp blade.Įach day, a new cut sprouts from an old one, and you lose another ounce of blood. You realize you’re marred by the sight of those stains not just milk stains, but also blood stains the baby swallows from your shredded body. So the fluid is no longer within you but marked forever as stains upon your previously pristine, shiny surface. Day by day your little life suckles, drains your fluid and promptly, heedlessly, vomits it back up. It’s not long before you realize: no, it’s certain. You think that by replenishing your lost fluid, you’ll somehow become whole again. ![]() So you take care to hydrate, to rest, to keep a glass of water by you at all times. The fluid that dries up, down there, like a parched well crisscrossed with the bleak reality of shadows. The pain that blossoms, the pain that lingers, the pain that is lost and then leaks from your pores. ![]() There’s the fluid lost in birth amniotic fluid and elimination fluid and blood fluid and ankle fluid. After all, there are many reasons why that might happen. At first, you think it’s just dehydration, that perhaps your cells are shriveling like an aging, dried-up bean. ![]()
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