[cento]

Anxiety chokes me like razor wire,
My own blue razor rusting in my throat.
The rustle of blood echoes in my ear:
This mutilated flesh, our victim.

The skin could well be paper:
Our veins, white as pork fat, emboss
The smooth surface ' pores and lines resemble
Weird cheek-mottling, from pillowcase embroidery.

A face grown swollen, pale as the moon,
With two dark poppies congealed on his cheek.
Sweet penance for this sound
That became the beat of my heart on the sheet:

It might explode in our hands.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...