you taught me that a gun


                           without a bullet


weighs much more than


the one


               that has something to hold.

i tried to eat my whole heart raw once.


but i could not stomach it. could not stomach the noxious ventricles down my throat, could not swallow the bollus of unfleshly pink carnage.
so i broke it into pieces and i blamed you instead, because it seemed easier to say you broke me than to say that i ever loved you.


i.

this is how you broke me :

whenever i thought of you ******* her i would think of dying inside.


dying is a blessing.

dying is the movie that i am too young to watch but too old to resist. dying is divinity, it is paradisical death in slow motion, an entity mushrooming in between the eyes of a decaying rabbit. it is tears being ****** back into the eyes of a small girl, legs apart, ***** ripped, the fruitlessness of futility bleeding out like saliva from a mouth. dying is being idle, dying is being able to think without questioning existence, dying is a moth, paled by smoke.


it is that tuesday night i promised myself i would never write again
if all i wrote was about you.



ii.


this is how i broke myself :

whenever i thought of you dying inside her, i would think of *******.


******* is a blessing.  


******* is the reason an orchid can sing without a stigma. ******* is the malformation of your tongue when you say " i hate myself, because i hate you, but i hate you more. ". ******* is about three blocks away from love. ******* and love are probably secret **** buddies. ******* is saying you love her. ******* is saying you love me. ******* is that heart-shaped bruise that you left on my wrist, that tuesday night you ***** me and called it love. ******* is telling me i am not her.



this disposition of 'her', the realisation she plays a better 'her', than i play 'her', the realisation that she stole 'her' from me, when'her' was a dream both of us  could hope to fake.



iii.


why people are kept broken:

you once told me, while ashing out a cigarette on my neck,
*"it is better to stay broken so nothing else can ever break you again."

to the garden lack of the pulse of insect's colour
paved with voices,
a dreaming girl selling her little body
it starts;
girl in box, girl in box,
when will she be let out?

a dreaming girl, dreaming
in her empty dream


i do not think i am late, am i?
who is still here?

and the sheep turned on their sheopard
       selfish
and drank their saviors blood
thinking it was rain

     as the bombs tore holes in Gods skins
and he quieted..,

        but not for many years.
after all that was left was a scar and His hands. which took on arthritus.

white (birds and red) birds


making blisters in the sky



-          - memento mori.

i cant do it anymore..*

***.

your face as pale as knuckle,
it fell off like a stubborn cherry,
your mouth is clever as a ****
and mine isn't.