The Octopus Eats Itself When Stressed

When I’m stressed, I wish I had limbs to chew. I settle for my nails, but the flavor doesn’t satisfy. If I had fingers that could grow back I would scatter them all in different directions. I feel like I’m caught in a bear trap and I am willing to gnaw myself to a stump. What is left to give when you’ve given every arm you already have. When I’m stressed, the first thing I do is punish myself. The first thing I think is self mutilation. The first place I go is a hole with teeth. I am delicious when I am killing myself. Cannibalism never felt so rewarding. Like the only prize I know I can win. I am my best when I am hurting. When I am worried. When I am in a constant state of shock. When I am at the bottom of an ocean I have sank myself in. Wave after wave and I am still tied to the cement block. Wrapped in a dozen arms I have ripped from my body. Like a hug I needed but never knew how to ask for. Afraid of holding too tight. Or never letting go.

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