he sways to his own
rhythm
of barbed words
serrated edges
clenched in
pursed wet lips
blades growing
duller with
successive use
until
one frightful day
they seem harmless
as butter knives
hopeless
if we believe
his razor
words do not
draw blood at all
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay
No comments:
Post a Comment