Cold night, razors edge;
Changing paradigms, by force.
Life is violent.

I tasted her mind,
after drinking her juices.
Delicious poisons.

I said her name,
and then she came.
The end.

Right now I want to cut myself,
deep.
I'd like to drop lit,
wooden kitchen matches
onto my willing abdomen
and watch
my flesh melt
away.

Something has to give.

Bind me to an iron cross
and flay my skin.
Strike my joints
with a metal rod
until I am
completely broken.

This cannot last.

I'd like to grab
hold of the flesh
under my jaw
and rip my ugly face
off of my ugly head.
I want to pound nails
into my knees,
chew on thumb tacks,
skewer my eyes
with toothpicks.

I spent an hour
scraping calloused feet
and toes when I could
have cut them off
with a pruner
and saved some time.

I'd like to do these
things, but I am
not a *******
I am no victim.
I am no martyr.
I am not so deep
in The Nothing.

I would rather
perform these acts
upon you.

Morning blooms grey,
even the birds are quiet.
I broke two more hearts this week
and all I want to do
is hear your laugh.

You put strings in my joints

Your wooden face still hangs on my door
and Buddha squats on my granite nightstand.
Tastes of you are everywhere I look.

You shoved it in my face

******* and fighting
my way back to me,
I'm shedding skin
and growing teeth
and breaking bones
and doing **** my way
and loving it,
really loving it.
Still I hate every second
I am not with you.

*The coldness of your nothing