My body is too smart for my brain. It knows how much force it takes for a kitchen knife to cut a carrot. It knows how much weight the point can carry, gravity and muscle and heavy air behind it. It knows the thickness of my skin and it knows what my brain wants when it flashes images of teeth and claws bursting from my stomach in front of my eyes, and so I put the kitchen knife back in the box it came from, and my arms remember only how cold it felt, suspended against my skin for so many minutes, without the force to move forward.

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