There is a blue vein in my wrist I like to look at.
I’d like to pull it from my skin,
fit it under my tongue,
feel the pulse of life between my teeth.

Or better yet,
I ought to pull it out in its entirety,
store it somewhere safe
so I can’t do anything rash with a razor.

On the day you find me,
I will have bite marks on my wrists,
and stars in my crooked smile,
and rocks in my shoes.

On the day you find me,
I will be naked and bleeding,
the veins finally pulled from my skin and wrapped noose-tight around my neck,
swinging from the ceiling to the thud of my heartbeat.