• The earth spins around,
    it makes the same rotation every day,
    the moon circles like a hawk,
    waiting for its chance to take the spotlight,
    but every month is like the last.

    And we slice our bread into equal parts,
    pour the same amount of
    juice into every cup.
    And normality dances around our heads,
    breathing sweet assurances on our lips,
    chaining us,
    to the kitchen walls with sheer precision.

    My hands are knives against this.
    Or they would be if they knew how,
    I am awakened every day by the
    begging of our fingers:
    “Can we please become blades today?”

    My life is words cast out to sea,
    on a seaman’s seasick tongue.
    No one will ever hear or care,
    and these words waver with uncertainty
    and a lack of strength.
    The fish swim out of the way.
    And the fish proclaim:

    “I love you,
    I hope you love me too,

    ‘cause if you don’t I would die
    and make lots of people cry –

    so please love me
    and happy we shall be!”

    Like the seaman’s words, the fish
    are unheeded, un-needed.
    So they swim in formation,
    spelling out these words:

    “Oh why did it go this way,
    why wasn’t it a better day?

    If only our love stayed true…
    how I want to be with you!”

    The earth spins in rotation,
    and the moon cries the same tears it did last night.
    My hands beg to become knives,
    and the fish sadly proclaim:

    “I have a story to tell,
    that you know quite well,

    You see, I’m like a fly
    caught in a pie.

    I can’t get out,
    I want to shout!”

    A seaman’s sickly words are unheeded,
    but at least he knows of his
    unimportance.
    And, with the strength of all
    that pretends to be holy,
    the fish scribble on his ship:

    “This is gud… I lik it.”

    And they cast excited glances to one another,
    knowing that they will be noticed as
    they yell:

    “Five out of five! Five out of five!”

    Cheerleading a bystander
    all the way
    into the next day.
    And the bread is cut into unequal slices,
    and a little girl begins
    to mix her drinks.
    And hands do become knives.

    Because, now, they know how.