blinded and uncomfortable,

once by lies and fear, now decrepit

the stem running up my back and

its wretched and cursed flower

wilt sixfold ever since the thunder,

the lightning that you unleashed on me,

stolen rouge, broken plumbing -

trying to be more than the damage you left behind.

no butterflies for this mess

conquered and destroyed by downpour, sunburst;

only a mouth full of ocean -

shuddering waves towards the blood moon -

and the remnants of your solipsism

more real to me than my own beating heart.

now, blinded by formal realism and your belligerence,

crimson clouds against inevitable death,

i know you can now see the light

no blades you need to hurt me

no delicately decaying words of devotion

for i always begin with you

and then diverge, disintegrate;

a mockery, mayhem, a survivor of bedlam

could i ever be more than the damage you left behind?