We **** to dissect.
To describe our utter despair over
the intrinsic lethality of
life, we take apart our minds
and separate the soul from the body
to see each, spread flat and smooth,
for the promise it is not.
We torture out of each other
a made up confession
that we have no tears behind our eyes over this
with a glance,
and squeeze the blood out of our fists
trying to hold composure when telling
our loved ones
"I love you",
but meaning
"Don't go. Ever."
And still we **** to dissect,
tipping back the bottle of complacency
to become stupid enough to believe
we are getting younger;
that time isn't tearing us apart
like we are
tearing ourselves apart
looking for a way out
inside our way into
life, our only life,
that is to say we **** to dissect
to grasp at what's killing us,
which is ourselves,
and everything,
and nothing at all...
And so the affliction of the gift of life
is it's termination,
the beginning designates  the end,
and the birth was not asked for,
the death unavoidable.
The time in between
is desperate,
and pure,
and must be held close.