Shattered fragments lay flat
against our skins. Scattered
pieces of who we once were.
Angles slice our Flesh, strain
through sinews. Bone remains
underneath these pieces, obscure
in reference. Fragments eat away
from outside in. We dissolve, fray
under their constant, relentless.
It is my fault for being so careless,
my fault for making them precise.
It hurts, I know. This should all entice,
but we’re not quite there. I feel
it too. Inside is too much to reveal.
4/12/10
This poem will be published in the April issue of Midnight Screaming.
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