A note on painful dreads

I raise my hand and it strikes something hard. My nose itches. I lower my hand to scratch it. The moment these two meet, I feel something wet. It's not slimy, but I hate myself all the same. I lower my hand even more to take out a handkerchief from my bag and that's when, all of a sudden, I'm totally paralyzed. Everything turns into ashes for a few moments. I come to realize that I've spent my last few seconds feeling an intense pain. The information is completed and I can believe there is blood on my hand. Damn it. I'm happy that no one's around. As I don't think I have a very presentable face while saying it. I rub the inner part of my upper lip upon my yellow teeth and I bet my nose is wrinkled like that of a furious cat. There is only one way to know it. There is a spectacular piece of art on the wall. How about an exhibition of my animated masterpieces? Art-lovers from all around the world may come to see them. There are a lot of them, you know. They can even buy and take them home. It's such a shame that they become pieces of bullshit there.
All four fingers of my hand are open-mouthed. They scream when I have a fist for a hand. It takes a few months for them to close their mouths. But their sewed lips are always before my eyes. I'm afraid of my hand. I dread that these sewed lips might rip themselves open. That's why I never close my hand into a fist. I just let it be in this painful peace.