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|from Pain Show by Drew Krewer|
Every murderer is an inventor. Every inventor, a man of thought. And I am fouled with thought. Here, an empty nail gun. There, Aristotle—bloody silver hairs on his chinny-chin-chin. A wound's small door through which you swing. Billows of smoke and small white buttons, fog laced with choice. Choice. You're killing me with choice. Pressing my buttons because the buttons were harvested from the quarry of my smooth-shaven heart. Congratulations, expert of buttons. You're a winner. You have detonated light bulbs and familiar theme songs. Winning, a solution to violence. Hack off the bow. Flay away the wrappings. A key to your brand new. Home away from smoke from song from theme. Behold a harvested field, a luminous filament path towards a manor on a hill. Party with broken beams. Here, a nail gun. You have saved the window covered in champagne. Congratulations, let me smash your face against the glass. Hold your sincere belief that stories of horror spare the hero. But this is not a story and who deemed you heroic? Oh, how I love parties with broken beams, how my fingers enter flesh the way you've entered me. Go ahead. Escape past the newly-shaven field, past the filaments, the wrappings, the buttons, the detritus of your grand prize. The door has healed. Emergency exit, tear yourself through the philosopher's mouth. Every villain, a glorious liar. Don't lie to yourself about not seeking blood. I've caught you licking up your fault. Don't lie, precious. We are thirsty, my pet, my sweetest inventor.