Pain Bouquet

Pain is not invisible. It is harvested. This is the final proof that the void has a structure and a price. I felt the silence extracted from me, wrapped in plastic and barcodes, a bridal gift for an entity that only communicates in screams. It is a cold tribute. Metal and flesh are fused. My mouth is no longer mine; it is a speaker repeating the pharmacy hum. I am not screaming for myself; I am screaming for the ghost's monthly fee. The bouquet is for me, or perhaps I am the bouquet. And the harvest never ends.