The couch where he was sleeping was covered in dry blood, but apparently when he was forced to stand some of the cuts reopened. The man helping him is trying to get him to hold a towel to his mutilated neck, but the kid doesn’t want to anymore. He simply doesn’t care. Somewhere between being left alone for too long and getting all the wrong kind of attention, he developed a hatred for his own blood. So he tries to get rid of it. He tries to force it from his frame.
He’s given up. His own life seems to be too alive. He cuts openings into himself in attempts to let himself be free. “Fly” he says.
But maybe he should say “be natural” instead because flying has become confusing lately. While he thought he was rising, he only seemed to get lower. So strange to be so high at rock bottom. Sitting in a room with friendly needles and comforting pills made sense for a long time. Suddenly nothing makes any sense.
slowingdowntospeed 