The wrist
Covered in such a delicate piece of skin
Like an artwork;
It should be framed.
I'd like to put my veins in a beautiful glass jar
And frame the skin that shows everything
Leave the bones to the dogs
We have no need for them
For it's all in the handy work of the beige-ness
And the whole world could come and see
What my wrists had to offer
They offer blood to the poor;
The rich can eat their silicone meals.
Careful not to chain them
They do the hard work the fingers could not
Yes.
They leak a substance that doesn't belong to me
And never did.
I think it's blue,
But the world will only see red.
