edit II

a poem in three parts

whoever said pens
were only good for paper?

black out the words
that slice their way
through the air
and cross your skin,

scratch them out
with fine or thick line
and suddenly,

the air is silent
and so are you.

why stop with words?

why not black out the edges
of that memory

the one that sticks
to the edge of your brain
to bleed pools of
soured crimson
all over your psyche,

bind it

etch it, scrawl it,
desperately buff out that break
in black

and suddenly
sigh a relief

the edges don’t prick
and the blood doesn’t taste
quite as sour