I Want to Chop these Frail Fingers

I want to chop these frail fingers
These arid hands devoid of life
Moistens as loneliness looms
These fingers no longer lie
For in darkness it thrives
Losing count of how many threads have been knit
I want to chop these frail fingers
The sweaters produced from tangled threads
I no longer want to see
I want to chop these frail fingers
To hide the teeth-cut nails
The sole evidence of what must not be seen
I want to chop these frail fingers
These shaking hands the core of the abyss
I want to chop these frail fingers
In exchange of delicate, stable hands