Blister

opening with a flick of the wrist;

the knife shines in the pale of the night.

 

steady hand and a firm shove

to the ground, the palms of my hands meet asphalt.

 

fist in my shirt, knife to my throat;

blood spilt over nothing.

 

thumbs pressed to my windpipe,

to the sides of my neck, eyes bore into mine,

fingers pressing into my skull and spine.

 

knees crushing my chest,

I heave uneven breaths, cold air to

closing lungs; it isn't even fair.

 

but then again, what is?

isn’t most of this what I deserve?

but what’s the aim in punishment?

if repercussion’s getting old?

 

blister on my skin,

all you are is wearing thin;

 

all I can see, it’s dark here-

I hate it yet I draw it still.

 

to myself I think of things unspoken;

I just hope that I’m mistaken;

 

if I’m right I think I might as well

walk on and just forget I fell.

Author's Note

the rhyming doesn't make too much sense- should I change it? reword it? does it flow too strangely?

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