A thousand paper cuts,
an accumulation of collisions
between love and the edge of self.
Declarations written on each sheet
folded into aeroplanes and rocket ships
and shot with rubber bands.
The last one cut no deeper than the rest
but the flesh fell away
Why do you bleed?
As if life were a mystery,
as if this hadn’t happened to him before.
I can’t be with you
I need skin that’s smooth,
unblemished and sympathetic.
I don’t know how yours got to be so damaged.