The man in front of the board is talking
I'm barely listening
The slice of metal pinched between my fingertips
I question myself
Why am I doing this?
No answer.
But there's this annoying feeling threading itself onto my veins
Just do it already
So I do.
The side of my wrist becomes a hidden war zone
Where I'm shooting no one but myself.
YOU ARE READING
Stolen Goods
Poetrymisleading title full of random words strung together pieces of my world
