Art is Suicide

You sat in my window,
singing ironic love songs
to the birth of spring
that beckons sunlight to us,
though we've never left the darkness
we revered inside each other's shadow

Your feet kicked the air
with a wind-cutting sharpness
to purge the evil spirits
that whisper hope over our shoulder,
laughing at the madness of such a blasphemy:

Hope! They promised us,
in honeyed words that showered us
with oceans of silk and mountains of gemstones

Because you knew, already back then,
that the only salvation to be found
for people that aren't even counted like people...
Like us

And since that night,
when you kicked away the madness
and protected us from the crusaders of false light,

I've been killing myself;

I've been killing myself,
cut open my stomach and lungs,
and with my blood I've painted silhouettes
of everything I ever was and everything I will ever be,
longing for the day to come,

That day. For a new day to come.
I'm killing myself every day now.
Every poem I end up writing
is just another funeral ceremony
in honour of me having lost
yet another piece of myself