It’s been gone for so long now that I’m starting to think that maybe it never even existed.
I’m talking about my razors.
The ones I kept in the box under my bed.
The ones I took out over and over again and then placed them back, burying deeper into the folds of my notepad each time.
Except the last.
Tomorrow must be churning the butter from my brain spews.
Am I going mad, spinning delusions from the abuse
I put myself through?
Were my razors there?
Or had my parents knew…