The bounty-hunters of hatred and sentinels of loathing you send for me are terrifying. Until your tongue stirs from it sweltering cave of rotting inhumanity; that is when my insides begin to divide. Searing hot metal shards are unleashed into my cowering flesh that tear and singe like burrowing insects writhing for shelter from some oncoming Armageddon. Be still your tongue. A solitary syllable pulses; channelling the distance of our two worlds, dissipating my eardrum, causing the flesh to crumble to bits on the obtuse floor. A kaleidoscope design of blood and flesh created from a hole. Be still your tongue. The shackles of your laughter bound me by the throat; heavy iron chains. The mocking black sheen shown from your eye causes my throat to wretch; much like when one attempts to quench an obsessed thirst with a hemlock spirit. Your tongue is still. External damage will slowly knot itself with its familiar and become cohesive again. My tongue is still. The inside is divided and shall remain thus until I am able to speak again. My tongue is still and remains still.