the words of injury.

the human sprays them like spittle

across the neighbourhood streets

so flippantly, forgetting

they are all some have - as their weapons.

their afghans crocheted by their grandmother

the defence against the elements.

wrapped.

she prayed into the hooks and loops,

rocking gently. bonanza on the old tube tv,

a bowl of milky ways on her armchair table.

copper wrappers.

i, lain slaughtered in a pool of verbs

but no actions extended

in hands warm and strong.

there i sit the blood cooling,

my beating pumping arteries

slowing.

my will

seeping like vapours from my mind

reaching for anything real.

just words, they hiss.

but it is all i have.

before my lips crack in dehydration

like sliced oranges left on a screen in the sun.

they are all there is. yet you throw knives.

ⴲ.