I want to pinch the cold metallic shape between my fingers
As I cut lines through the druggy haze in the mirror.
I want the light to sing a merry tune along the edge.
I want to leave it on a tool bench and find it later,
Corroded and coated in rust, dust, and forgetfulness.
I want to peruse the aisles of a home improvement store
And find a box of ten just like it.
I want to see the worry on your face at the possibility
Of inflicting harm on myself when you find it beside my bed.
I want to have a razor blade of a romance.
Or just maybe I want nothing of the sort.