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.