don't paint my intestines like gucci,
don't slay my indecision with knives that
grind, grind, grind.

don't turn your face from a pillow,
don't let your neck break.
don't delve into these passages,
they're like rats,
digging, digging, digging.

but you've spiraled, you've turned
into the epitome of aftermath.
the one who slips the key in,
snip, snap, clench.

you tighten around me, and i'm
wrapped, wrapped so tightly in your even stage.

i'd take a bow, but
you'd be turning,
turning, turning
into the grim.

and that,
that i cannot allow.

08/20/2004

Author's Note: random. but i like it.

Posted on 08/20/2004
Copyright © 2025 Rachelle Howe