brick and knife fight
you filet me every chance you get,
running your pen-knife tongue over my corduroy, glazed eyes, and marble mouth mumbled excuse for singing.
There is school-yard earnestness in the way you turn away with every smile, defiant to wit and charm that may dull your edges.
I don’t want to chip your blade as much as you don’t want to slice my smile.
I see myself in your back pocket;
a sharpening stone to drag your tongue over
before cutting into the world.
Christian Stock has been involved in his literary community for the past five years. He isn’t afraid of dying, but still sometimes ducks through the dark part of hallways. His favorite color is green and he hates that geniuses supposedly pick green. You can tweeter him @loCStock2sbrls