we make
love like we rehearse
we touch, but my fingers don't hit the cracks in your
soul
they reach out to touch the layers beyond the carnival rides
and breakfasts
but, they cut. you feel the sting of my knife
i gaze into the flowers of flesh and blood like i'm
reading poetry
i realise, on the surface it seems i picked the wrong
cover
mutilation
the first four words I write are my name
they say the scars of human emotion take the longest to
heal.
.
