i) my father never taught me how to shave, so I guess that’s why a razor to him and I are two separate entities; a symbol of his pride yet a symbol of my sorrow.
ii) and it’s not my mother’s fault that I am the way I am, neither is it my own. but when my wrists twitch at the hour when I miss the way she used to smile; I blame myself.
iii) they say family is in your blood and that will never change.
iv) if so, I am related to healing wounds and the wisdom-less circles of the trunk of a mind not made for the kind of tired sleep can never cure. I am the father of my own mistakes and forever the child of a forever without a beginning.
v) not even the poetry in my arteries can save me now.