i tuck the knife
that was in my back
into my front pocket
this thing inside my
chest, it keens when
i wipe the blood off
on a tattered sleeve
and i’ve just been
cold for so fucking long,
i don’t know how to
feel any other way
and what do you
mean, when you say that
you won’t hurt me
this time?
the knife trembles in
my grip, and i won’t
believe you,
i just can’t
i won’t beg to
be touched with gentle
and caring hands,
won’t ask nicely,
won’t ask at all
this thing, seeking a
safe harbor nestled between
my ribs, bares crooked teeth
and snaps at anything,
anyone, that gets too close
and so i take
solace in what i know,
tell myself that’s enough until
i believe it
and i do not
yearn, and i do
not ache, and i
do not wish
and there’s a knife
in my hand, and blood
on my shirt, and there
will be no rest
there will be no rest