Cutting Poem

Happiness hiding in a heap of dead stars.

Beaming faces, maskers flowering red.

Stars small and bright tickled into her eyes 

Crowding her corneas covering the black of her pupils

Toppling blue, silver over each other 

Watering down her sparkled, wet cheeks one by one

Clinging to a cross-stitch of the sun, unraveling at the seams.

Pink puffs passing threw her head smoking up her eyes

and then slinking out through her veins

But I make dead things pretty, I make your skin purr

And your head kick bright

Ghosts gone griming at gladness

Slicking back into the skin of a snake 

Crying cuts covered by cold collars, and

Souls strung on a string in the shower: sticky tin

Red rimmed eyes wrapped in the souls of children

Applying active touches to our acclaimed sorrow

Watch me express my love to your wrists

Rush fast and let me push my blade against your skin 

and let's make blood together

Now you can’t cry through your eyes anymore

But only with your skin, making you love me too.