strips of me like angelʼs hair
you contort your wrist politely
the sound of metal on metal
screeching scraping
and make me a beehive of flesh
lithe like the half-baked ideas of adolescent boys
that you capriciously entertain
but the beehive slips away
so you slurp slowly to draw it out
because itʼs romantic that way
because maybe a pair of lips awaits you at the other end
but there are only specks of skin that I have torn from my
body drawing blood like spilled red wine
By Jackson Richmond.
