You tried your best, you had it all figured out.
The little witch cuts her palm.
But it started pulling too much.
A mouthful of razorblades chases you
Deep into the closet where all your skeletons
Shied away with no grace and promise from your lips.
Your heart is the city’s center.
Your skin is the leather to which we are bound.
Your veins are the wires extending across the nation.
What beautiful unison, now unsung.
Two by two your hands and feet flicker in the shadow
From the light of your eyes to the rhythm of your throat.
It beckons you towards its mouth.
How tender it feels to be finally sought after.
-- Michael Edward Diaz is a writer from Puerto Rico, currently living in Philadelphia. There is always something hanging above him.
