Knives Don't Have Your Back

I put that photo of me everywhere, just for you to see. Staring straight ahead, I'm trying to cut into your soul. My eyes are paring knives, and I watch your heart beat under your chest, ready to peel the tough, thick hide your heart has grown. You can't keep me out any longer. I want you to look into my eyes and feel something hold you, feel something cut deep into you. When we locked eyes briefly across the table tonight, after prostituting to the intellectuals, we locked our wounds. You cut my hand, I cut yours, clenching, holding tight until this is real to you. We are sharing this.

And then, once you know, it'll be done. You can go, freely. Tend to your wounds. Because after you feel this, I voluntarily amputate this from my life. I refuse to continue to feel the disconnect. I will cut you. I will cut you out of my life,


and I will do it with my eyes.