Eight....

There Are Eight...






Small simple safe price
Raise the wake, and carry me with all my regrets
This is not a small cut that scabs and dries and flakes and heals
And I am not afraid to die
I’m not afraid to bleed, and fuck and fight
I want the pain of payment
What’s left but section of pygmy sized cuts
Much like a slew of a thousand unwanted fucks
Would you be my little cut, would you be my thousand fucks
And make mark-leaving space for the guilt to be liquid
To fill and spill over and under my thoughts
My sad, sorry, selfish cry out to the cutter
I’m cutting trying to picture your black, broken heart
Love is not like anything
Especially a fucking knife…