wanna be her cutman?

you’ll trace every wound, grease
all her vulnerabilities
and the taste of forged metal
will flavour your dreams

she’ll dance with you watching,
a storm over canvas
and she’ll swing for those *******
like a silk-wrapped machine  

wanna be her cutman?

you’ll watch as each cut’s inflicted
then wait your turn to touch
to your hand she’ll ever-be Vaseline slick
or sticky with blood

she’ll hide vibrant colours behind
gunmetal hues but beneath careful fingers
her scars will tell truths- and
they’ll burn fire tattoos into your heart

wanna be her cutman?
you sure?

(you’ll wish dead every guy
has her over ropes or on canvas, but  
she’ll be eyeing those guys while
you’re fixing her up)

It was as though he’d touched me with cut,
bloodied palms.

His hands on my skin stung him
and marked me.

I carried the blame for being pretty
but salty.

The best teacher says:
I am still learning as I have doubts that I really know;
if I say I know, it would mean that my limits have been reached and I could go no further--in this case, I would be likened to a bird that could sing no more, or a wearied violinist who has played every concerto, a regretful explorer who has visited every shore, or a lover who says:  I know every aspect of love and need experience no more.

The outside
         should never be your guide

I am the desolate heart
that breaks in silence--a world apart

No voice will be mine any more
   some words I wrote just a few might remember
   there's eternal silence in that mysterious shore
   time and I have split irrecoverably asunder

The voices churning
Deep inside.my head
Are actually words
Waiting to
Get out
And recite
A poem