CUTTING.

I’ve got a hairline tear on the inside of my top lip
Where it must have got bit
Or at least snagged on a dagger like tooth
In the middle of the night
As I was moving to a violent internal beat
Whilst being unable to sleep,
And now I can’t stop fingering its limits
With the wet tip of my tongue
And imagining it splitting wide open
Should I be unable to cope
With the pressures of a stress fracture
As I enact the rituals of the day,
Or attempt to kiss a blister safely away,
And even though I know it won’t
I still can’t pass a moment without doubting
And am therefore left closed mouthed
And voiceless as I’m accused of disrespecting
A peck on the cheek moment
Or an open ended invitation to discuss it,
As I don’t want to bust it,
As I’ve always been afraid of stitches
In the midriff of my mouth
Even though I’ve never shouted loud enough
To deserve a right hook
And have always stuck to looking the other way
Until, it would appear, last night
When I was sufficiently ignited to inspire
Insomnia’s unwarranted attention
As it wrenched me across the surface of the bed
And tossed a raggedy edge
Into the soft tissue of my innermost place
And left me facing the day
With such an unfortunate and mellow dilemma.