Through fissured blinds,
sunlight cuts
my toenails in half –
rosy polish
and pastel skin.

I recall a blade
once used against
my thigh,
until I left pale
hues for scarlet.

If possible,
my veins quiver,
and I recognize
a familiar yearning
from days past.

These thoughts are
sour grapes
that I must wince at,
even when the
flavor isn’t so bad.

My mind is a weapon
that wrestles itself;
I am on a seesaw,
teeter-tottering as
a toddler might.