I smell rotting.
My room
intertwined with
the last threads
of childhood,
remains stagnant.
Am I dead?
I move between
two doors,
ghostly
but not lightly.
Jagged, sharp,
my blood gurgling
to the surface of my
cheeks as a crimson regret,
flush, full of life.
But
I smell rotting.
Is it that, in a new city
I have killed
what once was?
Or is it that,
I
crumble
as a myriad of universes
collapse and collide
to reveal one answer,
one home,
and
I can’t accept it.
White window sills
splintering
to uncover inscrutable
decay.
Snagging the curtains,
stitches like veins
to weave together lace flesh
only to be torn
by the souls balcony
rigidly erected
from soft muscle…
To be torn apart
will reveal
simple space.
absence
of contentment.
To remind me
I am nothing.
Which is
not a defeat
but
an apotheosis
to set me free.