The tiny box reads "helping hand"... the irony tickles me with each slice.
No. The irony is miserable and I don't "need a hand" like this.
Cut free, no blood spills... it's this I whisper...
"I really thought that we could have a conversation.
I thought that if I could get there I could shake this."
But my mouth and mind get in the way everytime we get this close.
Maybe one day you'll find me running;
I'll trip over myself and you'll take my hand and help me up.
(the kind of helping hand I've needed)