by Kristin Garth
It’s as much the fault of the blade that it was
designed serrated as it is that I’m
designed accident prone. Neither the cause
of any bloody outcome unless combined
when we should leave each other alone. Eviscerate me without trying.
Ruin another sundress. Wounds I know
my friends wish I wouldn’t express multiply
simply because I gravitate to your glint.
Crave danger inside my fumbling fingers
believing this time will be different.
Festering scabs are only what linger
and yet when we are too long away
I find virgin skin to offer the blade.