The razor’s dull blade chafed skin beneath snow white Barbasol mimicking the unevenness that marked my failed life. Each nick reminding me of dreams long ago blushing pregnant, with promise.
How I’ve wished to join those vanquished hopes following them down the drain of my corroded mind. Routine has become a prison and I have become both inmate and executioner.
I ache to run, arms flaying at missed opportunities chasing their ghosts into outer space, forgetting I ever had dreams of big things. I want to forget touching your skin with ten fingers both rough and soft, pinching your flesh and kissing each inch of you, you telling me “I love your breath on my body, your tongue licking me, I love you.”
I want to forget memories bubbling beneath snow white Barbasol as I scrape layers of time from my face, with this dull rusted razor.