A poem about someone practising dangerous hobbies on a terrace, sort of. More about someone on the brink of inflicting self-damage.
Lyrics
(sung)
Knives, they're the only thing that pushed you to me, bleeding, with me,
This blade, its the only thing I fear, it cuts me, this blade, it cuts me...
(spoken)
take these little knives
and make a pattern in the air
glint of steel in sunset glory
sweat moulding your hair
careful now
there's danger in this art that you
practise every evening on this
wind infected terrace.
this steel is the addiction
you hid for long
this strangeness that you wrap yourself around
this blade against your cheek
shifting constantly as you capture its cool
fading before my eyes
its grey melting into twilight
(sung)
Fear, its the one thing you won't see, my eyes are my fire, my eyes are
And you, you're the anger I don't feel, you make me, believe in, these knives
(spoken)
maybe someday you'll try this with fire
burning torches cutting through night
like the cloth these knives make of sunlight
cut swift and let fall
as i gaze at you not speaking
but straining to catch each swish
like the sound of a distant stereo
playing a favourite song
in the open window cool
of this december night,
you pack your knives away and let
me touch your hair
almost scared
that I may greet your return
with the sudden movements
that kill possibilities.
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