Inspiration

this is not a small cut that scabs and dries and flakes and heals...

i want the pain of payment.

what's left but a section of pigmy-sized cuts, much like the slough of a thousand unwanted thoughts.

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 the to the gutter: i'm cutting trying to picture your black broken heart.

love is not like anything, especially a f***ing knife.