Bite

The edge of the invisible blade. Here, now. Not outside, not tomorrow. Only the pressure. The precise point of oblivion. A knot, taut as an old rope, dissolves in the sting. There, at the point where the world shrinks until it is only this pain, small and mine. The muffled echo of the roaring mind, silenced. For a second that stretches, the loop breaks of the should, of the what if. Only the touch, the skin. And I breathe. Not pure air, not peace. I breathe the hollow, the emptiness left by the bite, a blank canvas where chaos once seethed. For a moment, nothing. Only the mark, the memory of the cessation. The fragile stillness. Before the world remembers its name. Before the knot is tied again. Here, now, in the pause of the moment. The ephemeral refuge. Silence made flesh.