Dancing with Knives

I don’t want to let
you down but
I’m drowning,

darkest thoughts cowering where
campfire songs don’t include
their harmonies,

guttural in a mostly
charming way.

I don’t want to go
but I cannot stay,

for anger’s varnish
coats
my magnum
opus, and I’ve been
broken of seeing
it for the
masterpiece it could
be.

A sunset in sepia, shades of
orange all blurred
together into one

grinning miscreant,

flaunting
life capital I’ve
already spent, as I’m
punished and pacified,
bent in half and
bastardized during
the matricide of
fresh starts.

I would be a phoenix but I just don’t
the heart for birth through
fire,
and the ashes I
sire aren’t worth killing the
grass they touch.

Already dancing with knives,
so why risk hurting those
I love when

I could turn them
on myself.

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11 thoughts on “Dancing with Knives

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