Johnny, tell me what it's like to die.

"How about I tell you something? I used to bleed and then rub it into my skin until I was red. Like an apple. I used to obsessively slice away in compulsive threes and watch the blood bead up and trickle down. Like fucking economics. I would touch it--taste it, even--just to see what was keeping me together. This precious liquid of life that kept it all in motion.
I was apple red with some kind of something. Where am I now? I would push as hard as my anger would allow and listen to the fabric of my brownberry skin rip like canvas. First I'd see the white, followed by styptic red.
Growing.
Spreading.
Constantly expanding like a universe of worth, of uniqueness.
Are you scared now?
And then there was the night in my parent's bathroom when it happened all at once. No slow escape, but a rush instead. No rip, but an
EX
PLO
SION.
A moan, a fall, a discovery, a memory, now. Then what goes on? All the wrong things in my head, in the room, in the whole wide world oozed onto the floor. I had to yell. I had to bear down with everything left inside of me. I had to collapse, and stare, and cry. I had to."

"Did that really happen?"

"I don't know."