After Sylvia Plath's "Cut"
I enjoy cleaning broken glass,
Anticipating which piece will pierce
My skin as I clean the mess,
Watching red bead on my finger,
Before washing it away.
I like picking roses without gloves,
Feeling the thorns delve into my flesh.
I admire the broken shards,
Reflecting jagged pictures of my face.
The sting of cutting my finger
In place of an onion
Might cause others a shudder.
I anticipate these thrills.
