I'm a ******* in the certain way
we all mostly are
in which the pain with passion is an inseparable thing
it is left over in bite marks and scratches
the illicit passion
but also in a look
and the way the air hangs
too heavy between glances.
and wonders at failed love
in all directions
and the impossibilities the brain makes
in what cannot be known
this form is less safe
and more poison.
it's the voice that reminds
make art or die
and suggests that you intrench yourself
in solitude.
and pain.