so pressing pushed the sunlight
against our cheeks on heavy days,
our own reflections had become
mere strangers with
the warmth long gone and wild minds racing,
despair made us colluders,
we rushed and did not mind the
bleeding cuts on our arms when
we broke through the butcher’s window
to grab
her useful tools.
these streets, we thought, were made
for sadness,
but violence too they bear.

the viscera of happy people
are prettier indeed
we clung to little somber knives
and made those ******* bleed