thoughts while picking daisies
i wanted to write a poem
about how each day i am with you
i expose my soft belly
like a cat who has learned to trust,
and about the dagger lodged between my ribs,
and how each day you
cut me a little bit deeper.
i wanted to write a poem,
but under reconsideration
it is not you who has done this.
you have only seen
the first act of this nightmare,
you are unaware that i bleed.
that every minute that goes by
i expect you to notice
i expect you to stop me
but how can the blind cease the ill-intentioned?
how can you safely remove a knife you cannot see?
"if you're not nervous you're not doing it right"