A jagged, sharp thing the men love:
is it my teeth? or the knives?

I do not know if the world is getting
bigger, or I am getting smaller –
one would comet a smile into grass,
the safe blades: the green is bliss.

But I am piqued by such shine,
I do not want it in my life, no, it’ll
outweigh love I have cut into pieces
inside.

And it cannot be the teeth: they
are human, though blank as a page.