Spindly fingers caress the curvature of a blade—and
(to the skin that) cuts and sheds armor down
(to the bare-boned, to the epitome, to the clover of eyes,
to the gouge, to the scrape, to the evidence giveaway).
Coursing through veins, a release, a blade—and
(to the cut, to the cane, to the lack of remorse,
to the gathering storm of blood stains, to the smeared)
bone thin and perished—I can’t relent, can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt;
my marrow, it will watch (to the second, to the hour, to the moments it held).
Fragile and hot, inside of me; (to the past tense, to the reasons we gave,
to the love we had for each other, to the hearts we bruised,
to the reasons we bruised them—yellow, blue, to the motion of release)
now I just drink like tomorrow’s foul, broken—a trailed-after sentence.
Eyelids cover the islands of my eyes, but soon enough, not now,
but very close to here, they will open again,
and the world will shift
and the paradigm along with it
and I’ll find solace in the curvature of another’s spine,
and closer still, I’ll allow the love of another’s words in my life.