Razors

I block my ears from the shrill scream of the razors who cry out for my form, 

through the prisons of your voice
and the tendrils of your early touch
in the soft hours of silken night,
wanton for the swollen puddles from the sap of injury and tears,
craving my flesh like a new lover, 
steel can carve out thoughts for a while but never your voice, 
nor the memories