Sunstroke,
in the middle of my broken neck,
soul starving as she travels
to the home we never had
punch me in the vocal cords,
steal away my words.
i am nothing and nothing –
a dead meal for birds
i study the tragedy,
the trauma,
the wound,
my eyes watch, unfeeling
the bloodstain bloom
a knife,
a saddle,
thin tape and helplessness.
Secrets that will last until my grave
Chains to the altar of my wickedness
Lightning, in my guts, restless
mama, did i do wrong?
mama, was it my fault?
mama,
do you find me guilty?
tell a lie, speak myth, hear a calling,
a sacred book, a nightmare, a haunting
need i ask, should i still, grant my wish, something,
that one thing
you know what i’m talking about
the thing,
the thing –
the epiphany,
the magic moment,
the time before the climax
when the plot twists,
approaching resolutions,
amends are made,
happenings end;
the folktale hightails into a happy ending…
and i’m done.
gone.
wasted.
excuses hush to fill the emptiness
where I stand without bones,
like an overused idea,
intrusive, overpowering.
i dont know
do you know what i’m talking about?
do you?
the love,
the hate that is also love,
the anger that burns the world and orgasms in its ashes,
the organism being poisoned by oxygen until it throws the last breath,
the death that waits for us all.
the fear in me mirrors your every terror and haunts me
That.
that is also love
let us comfort the child in pain.
it is cruel, cowardly, a creature of shame.
she watches from behind bitten fingers,
he cries in screams, cold as all winters
send me to the fire,
a meal for the masses.
i need no salt or spice,
you must swallow me in silence
all in all, i confess
the crime,
the heartbreak,
the madness.
after all, i regret
the self harm,
the loathing,
the muteness.
breathe my sorrow,
know my shame,
my lust.
willingly i sacrifice
my throat and guts
discard my face,
let it rot, let it fester.
just give me a taste,
one day without horror
ask me your questions –
i will lie and cheat
but underneath this bastion,
is the cursed child of heat.
you ask who is the voice?
i ask the child, the fire, the silence,
I hear no answer, only defiance
Maybe.
Maybe if I talked less,
I would know more.
Maybe if I thought less,
I could tell you I love you all…
Maybe if I talked more,
I would not be so alone.
Maybe if I put my hand in yours,
You would not leave…
Maybe if I loved myself and loved the world,
loved the people i see everyday,
sat down with them and joked,
and laughed,
and let my being be as it were meant to be,
Instead of running to
the burn of cigarettes,
the buzz of caffeine,
the comfort of solitude,
It just may be
that if I answer the question “what do you want?”
by doing what i fucking want,
I would not be so scared
of all this unlived life
