This is a dream again.
I rest my egg shell confidence on someone else’s
house of cards and suddenly-
Wreckage.
Extravagant mixtures of reds and whites falling
submissively under my ignorant fragility,
as though my being is a tremor,
One even the most sturdy house couldn’t withstand.
Catastrophe.
I can feel it,
Four blazing eyes staring consistently as though I held
something dreadful beneath this thin sheet
of feeling.
A hand gun, one pointed to my own chest,
A grenade, Lodged somewhere between these needle thin
ribs.
Myself- Maybe I am a bomb.
See, I constantly look for ways to hurt myself in actions
besides that of searching for truth.
I enjoy self-destruction, seeing something so hated,
just go, almost softly, into an abyss of silence.
The fires, blazing like a hatred scorching, blackening
goodness limb from limb.
My feelings are a vase of roses, decayed, fading from the
stem and out.
You know, more often than not, I am a graveyard that
people bury victim’s in.
the emptiness displayed here bares my name;
as though it longed for me, as though it
needed me.
Once, I pressed my thumb into a frying pan
rimmed with oil because I only really feel alive
when some part of me is hurting.
maybe I hope it will make me feel better,
that I can wake up in the morning still coated in my skin.
I called it mine. As though I took pride in it.
This body, one scarred with remembrance of echoes
that shatter more of what I once considered stable.
I wonder, how close, is too close, when we talk about burning?
The scar remains constant,
Like a continent of distress moulded into
this universe of me,
stretching out like a rubber band close to snapping,
pierced with loathing thrusting off of this
vertical.
I either bleed like a leaking sink,
Or I bleed like a thunderstorm…
I bleed as though I am missing someone,
as though there is anything remotely here to decompose
for.
Do you understand what I’m talking about?
Do you. See?
I have a special way of swallowing myself dizzy.
I am a reckless showcase of just how long
diseases like regret can last for.
I am the rough skin of a scab,
I just keep picking myself off until I disappear.
There’s finality within these words, as though my
tongue wasn’t an ice burg in the sea of my mouth.
As though my being isn’t always an obstacle I am
forced to overcome.
