So then there was nothing:
No thoughts about the day.
No wondering if I deserve
to be here, either way.
No flash to being mashed
flat on a car door, touched.
No emotions, like fingers
still against me. Nothing much.
Just a gentle, whispering sting;
A warm salt drip of blood.
A dew drop bundled on a hair.
So innocent. So good.
Five or ten minutes of nothing.
Of every trailing thought pushed back.
And then (no...) a. little hateful voice
Crawls in. Carve one more line on the track.
People who notice, say “Don't.”
Or just stare
at the chorus of
violin strokes.
Pushing me distant,
like a
trailing
thought.
One more cut—
could
make
them
not.
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