/lit/ - Literature

Input would be appreciated. Wrote this a few hours ago:

I want to shove my pencil through my palm, and drive to the emergency room with one hand. There, I’ll make them disinfect it and bandage it. Then I’ll go home. It will heal eventually, but it will always hurt. I’ll write with it jutting out of my palm; I’ll erase with it protruding from between my second and third metacarpals. Every time I use my pencil, I’ll be in agony, because that’s what I want --- to have my words warped and contorted by pain. Time will wear it down, on both ends, like a candle. Periodically shifting it forward to maintain my writing habits. When it gets sick with old age, I’ll skewer tissues on it the same way restaurant workers slide orders onto their spikes. I think my pencil will like that; it will be reminded of the warmth of purpose. The warmth will cause my pencil to splinter, bittersweet splinters.
I wonder if my pencil will get the nutrients it needs from my blood. Without roots, it might become malnourished. I’ll strip the laminate from it; perhaps osmosis will be sufficient for our symbiotic relationship. But osmosis could lead to oversaturation. The saturated pencil may become just as brittle as a dry one. I'm afraid that I'll overuse it. Afraid that it will get so small that it falls out of my palm. I don't want to patch my palm up with an eraser, one side of a coin. I may never use my pencil. I could leave it unsharpened. Lean into it for small doses of pain, small bends and creaks in my writing. Bury me with my pencil. I want to petrify in its company. Hopefully it decides to use my body in the same way I used its. I want pencils to learn about human petrification.