deepundergroundpoetry.com

Razor Kisses

What could have done this?
A cat's claws that scratch?
Maybe it was the one and only, ferocious Bandersnatch?
Maybe it was a cruel tree branch,
reaching towards me as I came running by,
to claw at my pale skin?
These red carvings, small crimson seams, broken in the fine white canvas--
A canvas that is me.
Maybe it was words, sharpened to a point,
chucked like shurikans at my heart.
Daggers in a sideshow act, my heart balanced like an apple on my head.
The arrow was drawn back and aimed straight at my chest.
Shot me in the heart, yet again-- How cliche?
Last night as I sat bleeding, I counted 18 altogther.
I think there use to be more.
But now I can't be sure.
Will these heal?
Or just leave scars?
Like they always do.
Like they always will.
From the very first one that lays diagonal across my wrist.
To these fresh red chasms of open flesh they lay before me now, as I write this.
For all to see, for all to judge.
Strip away my skin and see the pink flesh of tenderness that lies inside of my soul.
That is me, broken and withering, deep inside of myself.
From words, actions, sorrows and arguements.
From everything, even if I really never meant it--
Never meant any of these things to happen.
And now the skin is broken again.
And crimson seams will heal with time.
But when the words get sharpened.
And I feel broken in this cruel world.
No one to hold me or to hear my lost voice.
The razor will comfort my tears with it's kisses.
Beautiful razor kisses that leave red marks as bright as blood red lipstick.
That's what these marks must be?
Blood red razor kisses, from my razor comforting me.