You always picked the sharpest knife in the drawer
when a spoon would have done -
spreading it on thick
Just like your face cream in that mirror
With the little fucking lights
magnified and illuminated
the razor edge surfacing every flaw for scrutiny
imperfections pared away like fingernails

each reflection, a distorted caricature
a scarred battleground
every pore a trench
every line a trip wire
my body, the victim
my skin, the smoking gun

sliced open, flayed bare
ripped from innocent pastures and
corralled on the cruel narrow path
ignorant eyes flash
like the knife that separates tender cuts from scraps
slowly whittling away
until nothing is left

hateful hearts never satisfied, selfishly,
hanging words thick in the air
heavy and ignored
like the blood staining the blade
like that cross on the wall
overlooked, insignificant like
everything else: a waste
if it isn’t useful
and good riddance

At last, the flames engulf me - well done
those little fucking lights surpassed by the pyre
now this flesh is not mine; it belongs to the smoke
twisting and curling easily out of the ash, playfully, seductively,
in a way I could never quite manage when my frame was still wood,
a cedar chest, a painted cabinet -
pretty, but empty.