Fingers I use to write
Crawl over the words
Your fingers have already written.
Friction between hand and paper
Creates heat
Your feelings burn, yet
My skin knows no blister of shame
Or pain with you.
No poems of self-destruction, please.
My letters not few
Drive themselves through white snow
Making way for the plow
Creating a path for
Would be pilgrims into
Untamed territory
Not yet explored
Or even invented
My pen cuts my brain
To its precious core.