• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 12
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Single Use

Alone in a hold, languishing in a container
my name is now 'mixed metal'.

First the small strokes in the wrong direction
then once the cold saw had gained purchase
came the turning, broaching, grinding.

A hammer blow, the wiping down, the stroking,
his eyes fed on the curves he carved.

One more notch, slot, or small incision, just enough
to avoid the warded lock but leaving room for more.

Now rust has tainted, pitted, deformed and re-formed me.
Friction has warped and worn at his need to touch.
His ego remains un-sated.