Cut. A poem.

When the bone wails
in time to my beating, breaking heart,
and the blood curdles
along with my myopic tears.
I will reach for thee
and mark my emboldened flesh
in your honour.

I will scour my skin indelicately
so that I might feel again,
so that I might wallow in my
weariness and paint the sink
the bold colour of my distress.

Every scar will scream my story
behind a thin, linen veil
and come out to play
whenever I need your full
and desperate attention.

This is my needlepoint fairy tale,
umbilically wending its way along
my forearm and inner thigh.
Onwards, the fabulist spins
my yarn of truth and rage
and misbegotten sights and sighs.

This is my gift to you from me.

This silken cut that slices deep
and constantly reminds me
of your joyous regret.

My first book of poetry, The All or the Nothing, is available now as an e-book from most online distributors. To find out more, click here.

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