Love is not for birds.
Its for beetles,
slowly slaving over
pushing their piles of ****
backwards up a hill in unison.

Unplanned brainchild,
I did not think you into being.
You created yourself-
a zygote, immaculately conceived
by an unholy being,
multiplying yourself--
mitosis of my nightmares.

My lungs taste of salt-
the vapor of my dedication
paying homage with the bathroom mirror--
the horror you hear.

Cold, crystallizing salt.
So dense I float
in the pools of desperation.
Heavy breaths carrying words of consolation.
Pillars echoing back,
frozen at the sight.

Salt, yes, salt.
preserving hope
like stalagmites in the caves
of hollow hearkening lungs:
"Watch Gomorrah disappear."

Birth and Swallow the fruit of your *****--
with womb and bowels both full of Death
destined to bare that without breath,
Earth, Mother of lifeless creation.

Breathless life fills the canyons and peaks.
Worshiped for providing a lie,
Mother Earth we hear your actions speak,
and by them we live to die.

Strive and pant.
Consume and devour.
This is the curse:
death, work, and lifeless birth.