(how the heart wanders while researching the health profile of Morocco)
I cut some things shaving today. The parts of me I want naked. The parts of me I want to burn, from the inside, so that the healing can happen without anybody knowing, that I'm trying. The way the still-warm sun tea wants to try to escape from the glass, because the ice and the cracking becomes crowded, and...the glass drops from my weak hands, and barely breaks.
There was no blood when I cut myself. Kind of like the time you scraped your knee when you were seven, and only the white just below the surface of the skin showed. It only hurt when you wiped it with your dirty finger, dirty from it being in your mouth the second before.
The mouth wasn't dirty, it was just your thoughts. Not at seven, but when you wiped your cuts at 17, 24, and yesterday.
To be this ready for a band-aid. And butane. Is probably what the sand feels like when it becomes cobalt glass, with rounded edges. There's never a reason for the glass to return to sand. There's a million possibilities for what becomes of glass, in the hands of what we become when we stand naked, in a crowded room.