By the end of this sentence, I will no longer refer to myself as an I, instead it will refer to itself as just what it is, a thing, and use the proper...words to do so. Ahhh. What a relief. To write of itself as other than an it, is stressful, reminding it of the way it used to think when it was a person, and the nightmarish pain that it now associates with the struggle it put up in fighting its surrender. You see, it's not that it lives without pain--on the contrary, it lives with pain every. In that second I got a good look at you. Dark well kept hair, piercing green eyes, much taller than my small 5 foot 6, you being at least 6. You were only in a check shirt and jeans. You looked older than I, in your late twenties and me only being 19. You pounced. You pushed me into the ground headfirst. My hands reached out, breaking my fall, I grunted on impacted and hissed as I grazed my palms on the hard soil underneath me. I tried to get up but your foot was on my back keeping me on the. More

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