A Poem from several years ago

A cliché

I cut a star onto my foot

Because I can’t tell you that I love you

I cut a star, then it all faded to soot

Because I can’t see past the dew

I made a rose of the paper towel I bled on

It was delicate, and pretty in a tragic way

It was like I was merely a pawn

Of the game that day

I made a rose because it felt right

I made a rose because my foot hurt for the rest of the night

My star is lopsided

What does that say about my life?

I’ve been admonished for this habit, I’ve been chided

But that won’t persuade me to put down the knife.

My poor star is crooked

I had to draw it in pen

Then cut the outsides

I don’t know why I waited until then

To depict a star

Maybe because I see it all from afar

I cut a star onto my foot

I wanted to tell you that I love you