Racing down the mountain side
A winding highway in the rain
More flight than pleasure ride
Surely I was insane
The light was getting dim
If only my brakes weren’t so worn
My plight looking grim
Would they find my body in the morn?
Photo by vxla
“You see, Detective, I have a little problem with knives.
The box says forty-two pieces. I’ve counted three times
It’s never been easy working in the same place where Mom died.
Reflected in the steel above, I watch the red line widen as he traces the scalpel from my navel to between my breasts.
