Untitled My hobby knife is thin and leaves hardly a trace or line. Its marks connect the dots to cut out silent bruises that otherwise do not show yet, still go deep, exposing the secrets, and debriding rot. The cuts will bleed me, ooze out pain. Yet still I’ll feel a burning sickness and a putrid decay. I will not live — I’m dying anyway. Untitled I was on my way. I tried to say good bye but no one would listen. They all pushed me away — “Tell someone else,” they said and made me not their problem. I would have said good bye to you if you had only listened. I didn’t really want to go, but you didn’t even ask, you just pushed past and by. What was my reason for living even this many years? I was criticism personified, with jagged edges satisfying no one. I was steadfast and loyal. But now with need, unneeded I will hasten my demise, quickly dispatch this life by omitting all good byes. Untitled I do not want a violent or a valiant death. I just want peace, without the pain. Round and round the thoughts devour me. Beware: I am Yesterday’s feast, festering carrion. Those who dare to taste will sicken, waste and die. I am not worth the try. I am Plague. Infection. Scare. I am the breath and breadth of death measured by despair.