Poet 11586

Scrap metal

I have a little bit of I-want-to-die-by-the-flick-of-a-blade in me.
A little bit of sharpener love
a little clamped teeth need.
There isn't enough air to breathe, not enough water to drown,
death was never an easy way out,
it was always the hardest to see.
When there are ghosts in the halls,
in the veins of your wrists,
you just want to dig every hateful string of words
from them,
shout back for once when they say your name.
I know what they want, they don't know what they want,
they're just hungry
for something with an iron taste
and I'm just hurting
from the emotional waste.
Take my lungs, take my heart, break me apart
into the things you like
and the things you don't
and leave me
with the scrap metal
of your choice.