Wednesday, January 11, 2012


There are times when poetry does not consol me. Times when the steady blade of my knife is all that binds me to this world. Slice. Cut. Slash. I carve through thin skin and pale flesh.
When I'm through my arm are dripping and wet, the knife a sticky mess on the counter. I feel faint, but the anger is gone. Now there is only emptiness.
With trembling fingers I measure out the little white powder, so crucial to my sanity, and arrange it carefully, exactly as I have done so often before.
Time passes, I am not sure how long. Inhaling deeply, I wipe the sweat from my brow and hold out my arms to examine my work.
With a bitter smile I realize that I've done it.
My Apple Pie is complete.

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