It’s stapled
Ricocheted with bad music
And over-eating
But it’s stapled now--
Overshadowed
By the all consuming
Heaviness
Of death himself.
Wielding his scythe
Seething with the past.
The burrowing sensation
Now mixed with
This deep hole
That stretches for
Miles
And miles
And miles
Spitting out over the end of the world--
And there he is
Beaming
With a shiny toy gun in hand
Whispering
I’m not asking to marry you today
But I love you--
Gun pointed at a temple
One second
Two second
Three second
Boom
And you no longer
The ravager
Of my heart--
Those holes
Belong not to you
But to the boy
Who wore too many sweaters.
It’s twisted
This twist of fate
That in death, I find release--
Not from Death himself,
Wielding his scythe
But from
Drunken cupid
Who shot me
Repeatedly
Sadistically
Knowing that the eyes I would set upon
Were yours
And I was to never
Ever have you.
It’s not
Cauterized
The wound
Imprinted
On my swollen heart.
No
Now it plays
With the hole
Telling stories
Of depression
Of nights
Where air wasn’t enough
To fill
My heaving.
When the only liquid
That burned
Made my face numb
And my eyes sore
And my throat tight--
It’s stapled though
Slowly,
Horribly
Stapled.

So that’s good.