Dangerous Touch

A dangerous touch:
the fingernails against your soul –
not just some kid scratching a blackboard,
or a fork scraping across a plate –
and the waste of so much perfectly good noise
in such a grating makes me crazy.

My soul and your soul
bear the remarks,
indelibly recording the stinging call;
my soul and your soul,
mauled till they bark
and make a cold kind of soup of it all.

A dangerous touch:
the fingernails against my soul
could drill in much deeper if they chose,
peeling me down like a knife blade,
oozing drool like the owner of a claw,
playing the last cool game like a scalpel.

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