grammar girl

I'll
and
ill

are spelled the same.
they are

the same,

if you don't
fucking
care

about
punctuation.

if
you cry
at fucking

 spilled milks
or killed
children
or
imperfect
whatevers.


or at 10am
and pm.
everyday.

if you stand
in front of yourself
naked
all pink
like
ground beef.
fleshy
and
pocketed
with
sick cells
and wish
for a knife.

if you stare at shit
too long.
walls.
floors.
ceilings.
fingernails.
and wonder

what the fuck.

if everything
is pointless

then i guess
punctuation is

too

9 pm

I.

i
take a knife
and run my finger along the
sharp side
and listen to
the
swoosh
of polished
steel.

watch the
glint
of light
as the
flat silver
swivels.

and consider
the fine
invisible
line
between life
and death.

II.

i
sever a nipple
first.
tear the
skin
and
crush it
into the tiled
floor
beneath a
patent
leather
stiletto.

i grab
at
fat
and
muscle
and
bluegray veins
that i unwind
from my wrists
to my tits.
skin
that peels like
peaches 
in reluctant
layers
that i sever
in
slow
rips.
and the rest
of
my shit
that I
stab at it.
and eviscerate.
i swallow blood
i swim in my massacre.

i die.

and my shoes are featured on the news.