I am certain this life is not an accident. I have this ache in my marrow that throbs when I question this existence.
I have gutted myself, innards stretched in my hands, dripping certainties in a pool around me while I look for the lesions to prove this was just a mistake.
Oh I have found lesions (oh there will be more) – fool-proof evidence that we are nothing but fools if we believe misfortune should breed uncertainty. How triumphant a demon will be if it takes just a day to question our own worth?
I am certain I will recoil my intestines, fill myself with the scabs I once used as ammunition for angels. Remember, I am built for something.