Broken Bottles

The rigged edges of the broken bottle
glimmer in my hand like diamonds;
the glass cuts through my life like diamonds;
I know which shrapnel loves which vein,
how the vein colors each piece and
the shadows they cast when I hold them
against the dying sun makes me want to
unlearn the fine line between pleasure and pain,
all over again.

The broken bottles cut through my skin
as easily as a knife through ice cubes- yes,
it isn’t easy; my skin adjusts and readjusts,
it trembles, it shakes- an earth predicting its quake;
I have to dig and I have to press; it pierces
and pain strikes me like a thousand comets
attacking my skin in symphony; the effect makes
me want to separate my skin from muscles;
body from body.

The skin gives away like scissors slicing paper,
the pain faded away, a dull throbbing at surface
as warmth gushes out, red painting my skin
with the passion of an artist working on an eye
of his favorite muse, the efforts of a poet
to find the word that can convey his veneration
to his sweetheart; the pain ebbs- it spreads
to every cell like smoke on a windy day
and I collapse, the broken bottle slipping
from my hand.

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