Sleek and violent.
Deaf and silent
I wait.
Wait on the edge,
as is my life.
Wait on the shelf,
a collector of dust.
Heavy like sin.
Sin in the crevices
dried in.
I bring relief,
Sawing through the flesh of grief.
Blood from the forearm
Is a hand-job.
I’m still a virgin
to death.
Serrated digits clasped in prayer,
waiting for rage without outlet.
Because I mangle
not strangle.
Open
not close.
The adrenalin
I brought you
will dry
those pain soaked eyes.
You’ve turned me on.
Now I’m dripping wet
with rose colored madness.
I live for your blood,
I feed off your sadness.
I need it.
Addicted.
How dare you hold back.
My life is all edge,
rigid and sharp.
While your safe in the light,
I wait for the dark.
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