Little interjections

What’s my point
Do I have one
As a child, I wanted
Pinking shears
To pierce the fray

And regular
Little interjections
Into impending damage

My own serration
Bit me back

But they were younger
Than the rest of me

And now, my teeth are
Grown long
And no less sharp
Though sometimes
Just as wrong

But they are me
How will I manage
When they’re blunt
Or gone

Machete in my head:
Prepare to sing
Your cleaver’s song…








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