beware the sharp love,
caution when you feel the temptation to lick the mirrors, press your hands over your face,
do not follow your spine’d heart, into the corners of watching your own hands race through pages steaming your self-worth
avert your soul from the needle pricks and the self portraits of grief, even when you feel closest in wrapping yourself around the knife’s sharpest edges, pressing it on their skin, sheering them and whittling while gathering the shavings in a bell jar
do not speak to the octopus, walk away from it’s beak and the cruel ink, stop combing the hairs, find the softness between the fingertips gouging the wood, throw it away from it’s perch on your neck, lose the spindles and
shutter ambition’s growls into the firm oak door.