handfuls of paper cutting my palms like glass
but i have to throw them away if i want to feel any better
grasping, the edges against my fingertips as i bleed out, swiftly running to the trash barrel that so unfortunately stands at the other side of my house
i trip and scrape me knees, bruises on my thighs i'm stumbling now, racing against time, against the constant feeling of sharp edges tearing my hands to bone
i reach the barrel with a heave of my chest and a sigh, i finally open my sweaty, bloodied palms and stare at the one slip of paper left
i stare at it until i need it, i stare at it until im convinced it's the only thing left to save me
its not cutting me anymore, it sits in my palm idly and i wonder if its knows the injustice ive done by bringing it to this barrel
my kitchen sink drips in time with the clock, which is ticking loudly with each breath i manage to squeeze from my tired, aching lungs
i stare at the piece of paper until its soaking wet with the blood of my hands, and it begins to lose its shape
i whisper and tell it im sorry
i stare and it replies: its okay
i open the lid of the barrel, and peel the soaked slip from my battered palm
i toss it in and close my eyes
when i open them, im on the sidewalk, the call has just ended and its time to keep walking
its time to keep walking.
