do arrowheads feel despair
no one mentions his sullen, entrancing eyes
or the way his hair curls, falling in front of his eyes slightly
reflecting an innocent face
blood mats on his stomach
the exit wounds are holy
to pull out the shaft means to kneel
i yell from below that i am the patron saint of SSRIs
i take off my misfitted shirt
it always accentuated my unfit frame
to bind my hands to my bed post
i martyr myself to the cause of unkempt rooms
clothes line my room floor
soldiers trip and stumble through a heaven
i never forgot the beauty of saint sebastian
a sculpture of his death stood like a serene model
my hands turn to wood if i attempt to draw him
the words i wish to say turn to bowstring exiting my mouth
getting caught on my sharp teeth
the arrows that **** grow in my throat
they pierce my skin as they exit
slowly, dripping with saliva and *****
entering his body, dancing through his muscles
nestled in a warm bundle of love
such an ugly sight to see
there is inherent beauty in martyrdom
i will never be as beautiful as saint sebastian