The words I choose
are bruised and stifled.

I peel them
from the woodchip walls;
their dry flakes creep
beneath my fingernails,
lay roots and burrow.

I unfold myself as ribbons,
razor edged, uncoil
from spools in pools of red.
Trickled loose, unravelled,
naked as a bobbin
that clatters as it falls
and rolls among the remnants:

tattered threads,
strewn across the floor.
Words purged from the page,
poured from the blood-ink
and laid to rest.

There is no more.
No contest.