He stares at the wall like certainty,
placebos poisoning his ability to feel.
The little special places where she once crawled,
now burn marks of self harm.
His nails won't dig in far enough.
His life won't end quickly enough,
and so he sets his ritual, his belief,
his yearning for illumination onto the prayers he sends to her,
his goddess,
Death.

All my apologies, worthless.
All my ego, a *****.

I spend the days peddling my wares through binary,
relapsing into the folded paper daisy chains of atom bombs.

My stomach is a pit of ice;
it winds its way into growth, cold fungus,
clutches my chest like a mastectomy of tar.

I've only had zero peace.

The birds I watch, the scars they show,
leave me stumbling over their hollow little bones,
like the words I try to say to you.

Inside my chest.
Inside my mind.
From all the dreams I've left behind.

Oh, to get my hands upon your frame,
to mold you,
to hold you,
to *******.
To watch your eyes gloss and fade,
as your identity fades into

a glazed expression of
all the gains,
all the lost hopes,
all the joy,
all your dreams,
as all your existence collapses
into a single few moments of freedom
from yourself.

All my hope rests with you, aflame.
The yellow heat of your hair
corrects the simple nothing that rests in my stomach,
a knot of weak loneliness.
I yearn to swallow you down,
my lips and mouth making trails along your skin:
neck, *******, belly, inner thighs.
I drink your honey,
I gorge on the reciprocal desire dripping from your hive.
Like drunken gyroscopes,
my eyes roll back into my skull
at the heady scent of your innocence.
All the meaning
in all the art
in all the places
in the history
of the world,
uncovered and shamed
in comparison to the luminous existence
my breath finds in contact
with your flesh.

Love has an empty story to tell,
and I am sick of listening.

My stomach is full of feathers,
and in the same manner with which you pour venom from your eyes,
I leak ozone from my pores.

There isn't enough time in the world for me to impress you
to the point of ******.

I cut little pieces of your words apart
in my head, like paper dolls. Pulled
apart slowly
(don't tear),
stretched in an accordion waltz.

The tune they sing
is spoiled milk.