by Roxanne Finniss
It starts at night,
when my mind has fallen asleep,
leaving me defenseless.
The trauma of the blade,
thick in width and sharpened to a point,
causes bruises underneath my eyes.
Why don’t you ever brush your teeth?
My fiancé said the other day to me
when I was laying in my bed all comfy.
I didn’t answer. Just sighed.
I don’t enjoy the texture of the words
when they leave my mouth.
I feel depressed has an itchy, tweed skin.
It makes my fingers climb into my mouth
and itch until I bleed the words out.
For I can only stand the texture for so long.
But it’s there in the back of my throat
─twitching and spasming.
It’s waiting for me to claw it out.