My chest laid bare
on the muddy soil—
my ribs, flowered open.
Despair, my canvas—
picked apart by scavenging savages.
Condemned to the deep,
my heart lay.

The woman hesitates.
"I'm afraid of falling in love,
what if it doesn't work out?",
she naively asks.
Those that love,
have not the time or privilege
to scrape the bottom of a tar filled
jar to see if it shines.
Those that love—
love because they can't breathe
unless they do.
Those that love—
love because they starve
unless they do.
You are afraid,
not of love,
but of loving me.
You are a coward,
who cowers in fear,
not of love,
but love for me.
You are a prison
of flesh and bones—
one that traps the conscience
from waking.
You are a liar,
not one that lies to others,
but to herself.
I've seen the way
you looked at me.
I've felt the way
you felt for me.
Will you lie to someone again,
the way you lied to me?
Will you tell him of the time
you were emotionally intimate with me?
Or will you deface your conscience with lies
and ignorance?
Even though you don't like me,
I still don't hate you.
I feel bad for you,
not out of pity—
because you lie to yourself.
Perhaps my guilt was my capacity
to understand and see.
Perhaps you didn't want
to be understood and seen.
Perhaps.

Tools of war, once glorious,
now rust in the barren earth.
I wonder what became of the soldiers —
those who abandoned conscience.
I wonder what became of the martyred —
“Heroes”, they are called.
Heroes don’t die.

I have managed to walk
through the puddles
of diswant.
I have amassed—
great hatred of the known.
There is no mud on my heels.
I have been known.