Guillutine
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When someone decides to cut ties with you, their words feel like a guillutine.
The arc of teeth
the rising and falling of words
Transcribing tangled knots
sayings nonsensical
Incisors gnashing
bone scrapes the blade.
Keep searching, keep searching,
they are meant to be found,
to be bound by record.
Between both pens at
the side of the skull
Is the archive of every schmuck
sentenced
To receive the cold descent
Upon the neck’s nape
that feels frigid
Is the greeting of
a friend’s final conversation.
Copyright © B. Andrew Kelly | Year Posted 2024
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