I don’t want to see

The cracks

Stretching before me.

I am loathe

To trace

Their sinuous path.

I might cut

My finger

On the edge.

Then my blood

Would be lost

To the cracks.

Such a trivial thing

To lose blood

To.

Spidery webs,

Where do these cracks

Lead to?

Ugly threads,

Where do these cracks

Come from?

Do they belong

To skin?

To thoughts?

Do they belong

To my mirror?

To my sight?

Are they cracks?

Or are they my own

Weakness?

The weakness

That emerges

When I am alone

And in posession of

A knife.

I am weak

To let

The cracks have power over me.

I can’t help it.

I have to fit in

Or be fake.

It’s not so bad, anyway.

My wrists

Have no cracks.

But everything

Breaks

Eventually…