Wednesday, 14 February 2007

My precious little razorblade

As I was on the bus on St Valentine's Day,
That same image came to me again.
You, pinned against his mattress.
You, with your heels and hands clutching at him.
You, with your eyelids fluttering against his shoulder.
Like a little razorblade lodged in my heart.

And I realised it no longer hurt.

It wasn't that I was too tired, or too bored,
Or had burned myself cold since you'd left,
(Like the ember of some star flung out beyond hope).
It was just that I'd grown to like it.
It was still there cocooned in scars,
but the scars were harder than the steel;
Where it once cut, it now caressed.
I moved it back and forth within my heart,
And it warmed me.
It was just that I'd grown to like it,
My precious little razorblade.

And that's where we were on that St Valentine's Day,
You with your new lover,
And me with mine.


Phoenician in a time of Romans said...

(I promised myself I wouldn't use this blog to inflict more badly self-indulgent Internet poetry on the world - but I lied, I lied. The Problem Aucklander sent me an email (entitled, charmingly, "Happy Valentine's Day, pervert!") bemoaning a second place win in a local contest with a poem she'd penned, so I thought I better do one to post back tomorrow).

Anonymous said...

Happy St Valentine’s Day Perverts!
*I* am ‘The Problem Aucklander’, she proclaimed grandly, yet with a certain self-effacing humility. How interesting – I knew T referred to other females in his life rather cryptically, but strange to find my own place in the bevy. We once had a running gag over possible acceptable monikers. I think I wanted one that was feminist yet praised my tits. I have quite nice tits - as T may or may not like to confirm. Having read T’s entry I feel quite flattered, and surprised, to have made any impact on someone’s life – positive or negative. I’m not comfortable with the thought of ever having hurt someone I like, but then it’s what people do to each other, isn’t it? I’d like a thicker skin myself, but then how would I be able to really touch or be touched? Must start my own blog to fully examine my navel properly – but then all I ever find is fluff :-)
Happy Valentine’s T, my wistful? whimsical? wicked? Wellingtonian. xox
PS/ FYI, I wasn’t bemoaning the fact that my poem didn’t win - travesty though that undoubtably was – I was bitching because *John Banks* read it out on the radio. At what price fame??

Phoenician in a time of Romans said...

Oh, Christ, A. - it's not about you 8-) 8-). Actually, it's not about anyone.

Phoenician in a time of Romans said...

But, yes, you do have magnificent breasts.