The Cutting Box

One thousand cuts,
drip-dry, spot-by-spot…

I haven’t bled to death,
but I am so, so tired
of hearing the thunder
from those anguished drops.


lock those blades
in the darkness
of the cutting box.

Break off your key
in the rusty lock
and let me catch
my breath.

I will confess
to any crime or sin,
if you just… stop.

Please stop.

But, bandages
must be made
of the truth
to heal these
seeping wounds,

lest they rot.

©️ CG Tenpenny, 2023.

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