The Knife

She pulled her sleeves and turned her wrists away
to hide the slashes, red and fresh, that marked
her alabaster arms.  Her insides boiled,
neglected chowder, curdled milk and fish
in flames.  “My egg and sperm adults delight
in mental torture,” said the waif with eyes
concealed by vampire contacts.  “No way
I’ll stay at home!”  She got a job and paid
her bills, the knife beside the sink.  When hurts
erupted, lava flowed, she called for help
by steel. She tried an older lover, next
a boy, tattooed her skin with “Love or Death,”
but folding blades released the magma, sent
the ash into a sky of silver bones.

© 2011 Kim King


About k2king

Francophile, writer, poet, and mother of Samoyeds
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