I have wanted to cry all week long now.
For months, really, just wanted to sob like
a four year-old girl watching a movie
where a grizzly bear consumes a housecat.
But I’ve felt this way so long I can’t cry.
But I need to. My constipated skull
is filling with unshed tears, and my brain
floats and soaks in a putrid pool of me.
So I hold the pocket knife to my face,
a centimeter next to my right eye,
and I gently, lovingly twist my hand.
The blade breaks my skin, a drill desperately
searching for oil. And I weep scarlet tears,
but I still don’t feel purged, or healed, or new.
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