on smashing your own face in

i used to keep a razorblade hidden. for years i knew the placement by approximate degrees. in the light. at night. in various houses along the way. a tool certain of its properties of self-defense. the kind you might perpetrate only on yourself. i never did use it. only looked at those clean edges sometimes. some crazy roadmap reflecting the ways of insanity. until i realized that a real life, one lived with dignity, couldn’t include hiding sharp objects. and motives. i don’t hide so many things anymore.

while switching out the tissue roll in the CR a few days ago, one of the ends of the metal tube sprang off and clanged to the floor. exposing the spring inside. stuck just there, neatly placed in the center of the coils, this straight razor’s edge. same hiding place. this time, it isn’t mine.