There should be an emphatic ending, indelible in creation, like the rough passage between the two ragged edges of a giraffe's rectum. Perhaps, justly, it was a pink giraffe of rubberized conquests, and we were the tightly contained air within, and the air released in short biting bursts of sound were our orgasms. It would be oustanding to stem the tide, if we could retract the hand holding the sewing pin, alter reality so that it does not lower with such haste, and the modality of its bursting would be stemmed as a slow release of stale molecules of nitrogen, oxygen carbon dioxide and methane dancing in the cracks between our translucent particles. This piercing would be contained to the quadrants infected by my presence, replace the piercing motion of a heated sewing pin with the cutting motion of a carpenter's razor blade, the edge dragging across the rubber sheath in concentric circles, removing, at whim, all semblance of me. You would find it soothing, sustained in its orgasmic release, the tight circles slicing further into the rubber, shedding me off like a husked carapace, the musky odor of my removal from the chromatic equation sending shivers through your body, from spinal cavity to lower filanges. The silence of your actions would weigh more heavily than the razor blade biting repeatedly into my animate being, the forced removal self-induced for your own pleasure unrewarded except for the sounds of your bodily functions heatedly responding to my exit. Fortunately, I am not contained, and predetermined by what I think others expect me to be, I am the shavings from a giraffe's anus, the offspring of rectum, and the swirling wind picking up my pieces tells me I'm better off in separation, better off disconnected as the motes of my existence reside outside the walls of the good-person proclaimations your body routinely makes. Perhaps the orgasm of my removal is enough for you, for my husk to be dried up and used as you see it needed. Next time, place the blade in my hand, let me do the cutting. No, no, that's too late. You already left it sitting on the ledge, I already made the motion. The shame of my face in hindsight is only cured by the non-occurence of your caring.