02 January 2004

shapes

regrets, like bursts of pain, all have their shape, and a corresponding flesh to cut into on the map of the body which is all heart.

"she should've experienced that", sharp icepick to the eye beneath the tragically arched eyebrow.

"it was so short", grater rubbing against soft underbelly.

"she'd laugh at antics of this bimbo", stack knife, teeth cutting into index finger.

"all this cooking and present wrapping would make her happy", blunt hummer smashing few ribs at the left side.

"this car with top down under blue skies and frosty air is empty without her", shaving blade cutting into tender skin between fingers of a right hand.

"this bed will never acquire the shape of her body", left testicle being cut off with a rusty saw.

"she didn't write anything new in 8 months", daily turn of the dagger between shoulder blades.

and there is always permanent presence of thousands of glass triangles firmly implanted into heart muscle, cutting into flesh with every heartbeat.

was it all worth it? hell yes.