With butter knife, I carve…
A story, that is, out of the mangled rock that is my head.
A place, that is, out of the warm world nauseated by my cold touch.
A reason, that is, out of eternally screwed up me.
Every day I notch and nick and hack.
On good days, I’m blessed with a chisel.
On bad days, a spoon.
Yesterday was a butter knife… and I feel bad for complaining.