Suffocating bursts of wind envelop me,
Like honey catching dove wings
Soft pulsing butter-fly flutter of my chest
bloomed into mute silence of love and loss of words,
and breath -

clamoring up a staircase of glass and spit,
I pondered all the contrived ways which love hurt me.
wading through the solemn sharp,
I sung a song of myself and drifted down the river of
you
My skirt plumed, drinking you all up, black sludge skipped the edges
you pulled me down, under, a pop of deflating lungs
And then - your cold dark infinite.

the only time I’d desire another infinite -
when
the walls begun humming, then whispering haunting damnations,
tethering me to this one..  
The graveyard dirt is bitter, it stings hot nips at my skin.
The suffering of love, I equivocate evasive ramblings with scar-munched knees as my lungs fill with something other than
you.

An act of defiance, a resilient tribute to autonomy.
something dredged me from the ground - thick earthy sweat smell of moss and mineral tying me to this neutral plane between life
and death.
I want to hurt for art, for Ophelia.
for a greater cause, for moments that remind me of humility
even for the force of beauty

I cannot hurt for you, for it is not worth it to me