Skinning the truth requires vision, sharp knives, and long skirts.  Or skirts that hide more souls than plain air.  Strike the cello with your faith, with your scriptures, with your colorful omniscience.  Bleed into the woodwork like a silverfish recognizing your first rain, your first damp spell that rests across your shoulders like slaked thirst, like a fresh contract.

Squeeze what light you can from the street I’ve walked, from the rooms I’ve laid down in, from the stains of your own convictions.  Scar your own skin under the freeway, between the cars and the light.  I raise you a razer and wish you a soul spit-shine.  Lay with the fishes, swim with the sharks, bleed with the teens.  This body is nothing more than a reflection of a nightmare.  Let me go.  Let me go.  Let me go.

Every knife is utility, every knife has my name etched across its metal.  You can’t see it because it hasn’t called you out.  Crooked lines lead to imperfect veins like a map you remember from birth, like skin rifting with the atmosphere, like love you wish wouldn’t flash across your window.  Like death when it splits your memory.