The skin is falling off my hand like sheets of scabby vellum. The pain, when the blood rushes down to the end of the limb, is a pulsation of fire. I’ve resorted to keeping the hand above my heart as a defensive gesture against the pain and as a prayer-like clarion to care for true burn victims. This is realization. This is rebirth. This is perspective. You can call me PK Onionhand. Yum. Sounds like a new side dish at Applebee's. "Would you like that regular, or extra scabby?"
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