Sharps

Lights hummed, arbitrary 2am artificial neons.

He created a work of art, beautiful neat stitches on porcelaine skin. A simple scar from larynx to pelvis.

So young, so beautiful, what a waste.

Rolling down gloves, inhaling the scent of latex, and throwing everything in the voluminous yellow box he sighed.

Sharps – do not handle.

Posted in response to #55worder prompt over at Geth’s place

Get writing!

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