there is
there is
no literature in this

the core of my barrenss stiched between the somber of your lips

there is not enough anarchy in the mass to hold this
to speak of the almond eyes that I innocently miss
blue and full, the shadowy veins on your lips
the hands I once
---
--
-

kissed


There is no literature in this


the pretty pictures
I dismiss
I delay my thoughts

the sound of passions gunshots
the inky fluid corpse that my mind blots

In the late night I take my shots
I lay there on my wooden dusty floor
mirroring the internal rot


my eyes are sore

and I implore


you


to behave like you did that one day we were
saying goodbye at your door

please
please
just kiss me
once
more


Ill keep the hinges tight this time
this is the last time
I swore


to myself
my words they are cracking the wood on your shelf
to my poetry I scream for help
to my lamp I simmer in tears
in my pillow I drown your fears
and increase mine

your senses

I feel them
in my
spine



your jawline
all that was once you
and all that was once mine

so small and feline
you to my audience I will ******
before define



my tongue has ran out of words for you
...
..
.

my thoughts are too lonely to empansipate
my hands too empty to castrate
my mind too blane to hate
my eyes
too
numb
to
elate


I hold the heaviness of this weight
in my perched fingers
crawling to the steps of anything
but home

can I remind myself
of the sullen moments
covered in tatterted cloth filled with open wounds
leaking the blood of all your fluttering objetcs
taunting me
singing to me
everyday


there is
there is
no literature in this
the capitol punishment
of my frail little
princess