Oh I have never loved the razor's kiss,
But a sharper childhood's crazed example
Wrote its lessons on adolescent wrists.
I'm what's left after the flames are trampled.
Is it rebirth for those who never lived?
Seemingly this ultimate weapon's curse
Is its dual-edged blade; between the ribs
The killing intellect is reimbursed.
Yet the fire of the mind ever rises.
Ashborn children may have been their own prey,
After so many daily demises
Perhaps falseness's dross was burned away.
I never loved the wounds of my feeling;
I still hate cuts, but I love the healing.
A place for my poems 