my fingers are a chalkboard
unto themselves. i sit here,
writing piously with black ink and
nail polish.

i couldn't run you through
the shredder,
across the sand belt.
you'd turn into a fucked up afterthought.

but you pressed into my spine.
i retorted with a line from shakespeare.

(and they say,
they say,
they say
that i'm no good
at this.)

08/20/2004

Author's Note: credit to alaina schneider.

Posted on 08/20/2004
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe