I hone a knife

against my arteries’

thrum. The blood

slips a sacrifice

into a broken cup.


Worse than a cliché,

I am my own cliché,

a banal aggregate

waltzed about

in a leaky sack.


I vaguely sing

along discordantly,

not truly knowing

the words to my song.


(March 21, 2018)

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