twisting the knife

an old poem and its aftermath

You’re the knife in my hand and 

my chest. The wound was open

before but I can’t see if I still hold you. 

I place you gently down and still

knick my fingers, but I must 

sharpen you daily to survive. 

Is it better to die slow and red with 

loss than to cut the ties of my own veins?

I’m scaring myself now. 

How to stop painting my mind 

with such madness?

I press nail marks into my palms. 

---

I’m mortified. The humiliation of my earnest stinks like a death — I clutch my guts so they won’t spill. It’s too warm and my palms start to sweat. By now, I’ve twisted the knife and ripped it from the wound, and I’ll bleed two more weeks before I let myself rest. I owe you this much, at least, to veil my pain in gutless pen and paper. It won’t kill me, but it will keep me sore.