i’ve got the kind
of devotion that
has to be shot.
a stage five
infection of the
heart and brain,
with no treatment
available to
reverse the effects.
i’ll sign my name
on the medical
power of attorney,
granting you
the permission
to legally deem it
a mercy killing.
i take your hand,
showing you
how to hold
the hammer
and the stake
at my temple.
nonchalantly
explaining,
“it should
be like this,
but bloodier”.
ossuaries
of my heart,
the fountains
of youth.
leaving you
refreshed
when i take
the habitually
traversed
one-way path
to you.
but what of
my thirst?
what abyss
can i fit in with
how i am now?
finding refuge in
muzzled voices.
until the penance
floods my lungs.
causing my
choking and
sputtering
like a sink,
breaking the
silence in the air.
apprehensively
coming out
of hiding to
tend to those
who have went
sadly unattended
and bored to tears
from my deliberate
drawing out of the
divorcing of seasons.
whether i wipe away
the beads of merlot
seeping out before
you see it trickle down
or smear the blood
all over my face —
dousing the walls,
splashing it all
over the floor —
out of contrition,
i’ll swallow
the glares
and vacancy
in the air.
i will clean up
the unilaterally
decided mess
on my hands
and knees as the
assigned peasant.
born with an
immeasurable
need for affection,
and a horrifying
need to give it.
able to read
anyone’s need
for tenderness
but being unable
to predict just
how much
i will inevitably
overfill their cups.
delicate and damned.
too many poems
trapped in my fingers.
the tendons in
my wrists become
restless and ache
when i do not expel
my hand-wrought,
as i’ve been told,
eighth deadly sin.
when did i learn
to love like this?
to forgive like this?
to wait like this?
to forget like this?
to blackout
every word said and
action committed and
who was responsible?
how do i know it is
against my will?
an acceptance
of hardship,
often a sufferance
that i wear
like an empty
heart-shaped locket,
weighing on my chest.
yet for the
comfort of others —
of course,
self-injecting into
the median cubital vein
for later withdrawal
to enjoy the
syrupy-sweet
lethal cocktail.
trapping it for now
under my skin,
out of my sight,
but my body
keeping score
without my
permission.
the thirst
i feel rages,
so unforgiving.
curious if
anyone else feels
their calling in life
to be longing itself.
though once
considered
sacrosanct
with this
intimate
articulation.
i still cannot
find a language
to describe these
things in a way
where it receives
any likeness of
acknowledgment.
i worry that i will
always feel like this.
i don’t think
it’s a choice,
let alone
a wrong one —
but it seems to
be a boulder
i must carry
up the hill,
to only watch it
roll back down.
governed by fate
to be Sisyphean.
the hunger
i feel is physical,
but it is never
to nourish.
after years of
practicing,
the pangs of
the begging
of my body
are overpowered
by the hunger
seething in
my chest.
rotting in-between
every vertebrae,
exterminating
vital synapses.
i want it
to be beautiful.
and quiet.
and mine.
but it’s
so loud,
so messy,
so hideous.
so desperate,
so pitiful,
so cowardly.
unable to break
the chains
i cannot stop
defending.
there is a
sharp pain
in my stomach
when i remember
how hard-wired
i tearfully apologize
when i was the
one who deserved
the apology.
knowing the unspoken,
promised outcome
if i do not do this.
the overwhelming
scent of oxidizing
blood that you can
smell perfumed
on my skin
announces
my presence.
performing
another autopsy,
starting by slashing
an opening with a
macabre passion.
trachea to the
lower abdomen.
haphazardly
ripping out
all of the organs.
leaving the
carcass vacant
for occupancy.
crawling inside,
sewing myself
inside the host
who looks to be
indistinguishable
from myself.
