It pours in; in words, sliding under glass. Two headed vipers pinch the corners and pull. The cut widens. I am fierce and force and fire. Salt pours in as blood pours out. Memories so black and stale hang in my mind to haunt and to taunt. I wash the window red. To look outside but all is dead. The salt makes mummies of us all.
This poem isn't about self harm. But rather self spite and regret.