The Razor’s Edge

She says “We’re living on a razor’s edge.”
Her words are like an advert for a blade
Where some tall hunk who’s grateful for the pay
Holds his just shaved chin as if to say
“Think of how your life would change its course
If you bought the razors I endorse.”

In the adverts nobody gets hurt,
No one breaks the promises they’ve made.
The razor’s edge is where the danger lies.
You’re kneeling, tied, mouth open, at his thighs.
Counting hour-long minutes that you wasted,
Wishing things you’d thought but never tasted.

Please think about this next time that you shave.
And as the soapy bubbles start to fade
Imagine someone, lathering your front,
And just before your razor meets your cunt,
To start to trim or clear away your hedge,
At that point you’re at the razor’s edge.

So when you take the razor from its place
And open out the handle pearl inlaid,
To touch the blade against your perfect skin,
Think about the demons which are in
Your head, your head so full of duty.
They battle with your perfect flesh and beauty,

‘Til in the bathroom of a chain hotel
You’re in a room for which you haven’t paid
As a man is standing in the shower
Washing things he wants you to devour.
Are these the depths, the depths we have to dredge
Before we’re living on the razor’s edge?