I’m slipping

In the corner of my eye
a face in the window
lit up like the moon
winks with a grin
it speaks to me,
press the knife on your chest
and your heart on the blade.

And I don’t ask why.
but my hand moves without me.
and it takes the paring knife from the
drying rack.

And it feels so good
the steel on my skin
its edge pressing flush
on freckles, constellations
the former places I was once wounded
in a past life
the silver blade straight like my smile.
So my reflection shows
the glimmer in my eye
a hunger for destruction
parallel to one minute to midnight.

Let me cut this body
and peel back the skin
until I am sheer, one cell wide
a delicate lacework,
holy and demure.
Unlike reality.

Because I’m losing my sanity
to little white pills
crushed up buds
mass-produced pints of
it tastes like barley
In every object, there is
an inevitable entropy
including me
and I have to take it into my own hands.

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