You are the razor's glistening edge.
Slits across fingertips.
Yes, there will be bloodshed.
Blood from tips to wrists dripping and spilling from my veins.
It is not poetic.
So I'll clean up my own mess.
No nerves left to damage with the memory of you hardened, turned to stone,
stored in nails and soft hairs.
Locked away. No key in sight.
I have tried to unfurl these fists,
only to fumble around with the essence, the innocence, of lovers after.
These hands are cracked, wrinkled,
disintegrating.
Their untold stories turned to dust.
My palms no longer hold signs of a future.
They can do nothing.
Paralyzed by your pride.
Paralyzed by your edge.
Glistening.
A razor's edge.

tremors from the albuterol
two puffs was enough
to loosen my chest
after my fourth maverick
cheap smokes
but not cheap enough
to fill you full of fiber glass
and cat **** chemicals
my lungs call me a hypocrite
can't help but agree
i'll get one of those digital cigs
to avoid the nightmare patch