Poetry: I Bled Here

I take the words
-razor blades really-
mull them over
until my fingers drip
scarlet red blood
onto the keyboard
imminent short-circuit.

Slippery and sticky
my fingers peck
each letter
the spacebar.
Deep cuts aching
lacerations obvious
attract attention from
curious passerby
do not worry friend
I have paper towels
and if necessary
a towel.

These words ooze
from my wound
with intention
and I repair this
damage wiping
concave keys
clean of any hint
I ever bled here.


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