There's a certain satisfaction about seeing the tissue before the red begins to bead,
the walls spin and you can't tell which was the lead.
That type of release isn't good though,
you know that,
but it's allowed nonetheless.
Who's to stop it?
How can anyone help, doll,
if no one knows?
Three dozen months long-ago the prospect of keeping secrets seemed to fit.
How the blade fits into thin skin,
how needle carried by thread fits into flesh,
how hollowness fits into an stomach.
The yarn simply
f i t s .
YOU ARE READING
Laugh with a Draft
PoetryI wrote a poem, I sometimes do that. __ But in finality and purity, these words mean so much- yet I'm blinded by their insincerity. All this is, is a dishonest fold of revelation, self-accusation, and starvation. And so much more, more to be rimmed...
