The knife I take down my throat
To vindicate my thoughts
Of ruinous infection,
Deceives all sensation,
All thoughts, and ceases
To exist myself,
Until the blade conceals,
And the only tell
Of even its unsheathing
Is that of the daylight
Pouring in through
Windows of which
I had forgotten,
To strike the flower
I left out alone in the open.

The scent of the previous day
Made aware though permeation
From the bottles
Left open
To fill the air
With their intention,
But lit candles
Will once again
Flush the awful realization,
As the day sheds colors
To the night,
And when the music hits,
And the temperament
Fills veins with built and bottled-up
Stresses, the candles will smell great
As the chaser takes away the sting
From the blade,
And the flower, unconcealed,
Let without any pressures
Or internal guilt,
Finally able to be myself,
If only for one more night.