for the longest time, i have felt secondary. like that of an appendix.
once useful, and present for functions, now just waiting to be removed with the precision of the social scalpel.
time marches on, i say more and more, and as i speak and as i do, by my own nature, i evidently seek to be wholly removed.

infectious. bloated. an inevitable removal, my presence remarked in the rightful past tense like that of an incision's scar,
brought up in stories, and perhaps persisted in some circles, but without doubt, the scalpel lingers.
perhaps it truly is medical. to be that of a holdover afterthought, one of my many deficits as i resume aching and killing every interaction i stumble through.

i cannot. i will not. it is not the way. but fuck, sometimes to be my own scalpel seems the most effective, to better rectify the fact that i have brought naught but irritation and confusion. an inevitable fuckup, it's all I feel like.

but i persist, remain, and consistently prove myself to be that of a secondary bundle of tissue.
ache.
irritation.
self-flagellation.

to bring it up, you're pathetic, to ignore it, you're a mess without answer. it is an unwinnable existence, not that existence is worthy of a win condition.
but fuck, do i see some winners. some prized souls who seem more like a strong, ticking heart. or a well nourished and fed brain. a set of 20/20 perceptive eyes, all devotionals to the social scalpel which i do fear.

fuck.