- August 16th, 2016.
[Trigger warning: self-harm.]
It is not like the pleasure of a scratch.
It is definitely nothing like the sting of a bee, the small bite of a powerful ant that can send your arm into days with the doctor for months.
It is nothing like the venom of a spider injected directly into your heart for your bloodstream to enjoy.
It needs another kind of intoxication to lift, another kind of bite, another kind of sting, another kind of scratching.
It needs them. It begs for them.
Anything a spider can come close to it is not the venom flowing in your veins: it is the entangled invisible web that wraps around you, telling your hands how to move, telling your mouth when to smile, telling your mind what to think.
Anything an ant can come close to it is not the muscular sharp bite it has: it is the sheer number and power that overwhelm your senses and your body, the feeling of losing control, the futility of fighting back—the realization that you are but a powerless prey.
Anything a bee can come close to it is not the sting of their desperate tails: it is their hive, close to your abode, buzzing every day with threats equal to its promise; but when you reach your hand inside, you find that there never was any honey.
And anything a scracth can come close to it is not the pleasure that comes with the pain: it is the fact that in the end, you are stained red, and no one understands the story it tells.
***
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