Synching

I keep gnawing at my own hands
My teeth lined and at the ready
gathered up like school children to march with
shells to dig with
a body to live with
And you're shaking me while I yank myself like a wishbone 
at the end of the night
at the end of the dinner at the restaurant where we've gotten so goddamn dressed up
self-made nooses pausing at necks
and my waist squished into circles
under bands
like a twist tie, synching me together
holding in the contents
fighting back my urge to scatter wild across the tile
Stop it. Stop tugging at my arm.
Stop stitching up my fingers
The gauze bleeds in rorsharch flashes
and i'm guessing at the ink
i'm trying to see what you want me to see
but it's just blood
and you're just a man
a pair of lips
and crisp suited edges