untitled, a poem

the knives guide my hand

and my hand guides the knives

they throw me to blade and blood

and my pleas are comically perceived.

I can see my future fogging away,

the images replaced

by delusions and death scenes

piling up against the work unfinished.

you don't see me as human,

I know that much is true.

the deaths of animals or abstractions

are usually met with muted grief

I fester this resentment,

you don't know who I am

and I won't be the one

to tell you.

Valerie Gitlow

160325