I thought of it as an intriguing companion.
A game to play whilst in a malaise of mine.
In front of a dull mirror, preening myself,
a reticent sharp blade between the fingers.
A razor, tamed drifting in peach fuzz hair,
poured with encomiums on unslashed success.
A shaking pulse, ready to boycott my stats,
opens a vermilion gash, mystical, profound.
Numbers become abruptly fungible in nature,
the times my skin opens, a travesty of sap.