My hands are full
A letter in one palm
A knife in the other.
The letter is there
Addressed to Diane
The knife is there
Addressed to my flesh.
The letter pours out
The wonders of my life
But the shyness as well
Which kept it all inside.
I open my tight fist
As the letter drops to the floor
My shirt is lifted by my empty hand
As the other slices my exposed stomach.
The warm liquid pours over my hands
The front door lock clicks open
I drop the knife with a clang
My son walks in.
Who follows him is Diane, my beautiful wife
They gaze in terror at what I had done
But as I follow their gaze
All I see are the glorious colors inside.
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