Since you called,
I've been writing,
here and there,
truthfully,
skinning the night,
searching for meat.
I've peeled back
the clouds: crimson,
the sky: split,
the stars: lit like the mossed edges of a scab,
the cosmos: a ****
I'm getting weary,
all of this beneath me,
the earth becoming
a speck of dust:
absurd.
The kind of hurt you like to dole:
still there.
Can't I be an astronaut in peace?
Do you like the flattening of me,
into a pancake
like the night:
hammered and nailed
across the hemisphere?
I am the gravity-crushed,
the soul-sored, the black-hole ripped.
Opened and steaming,
I'm under the sky.
The emergency room of the brinking night drugs
and
a story of gleaming scars is my heart.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 12:19 AM UTC
Since you called,
I've been writing,
here and there,
truthfully,
skinning the night,
searching for meat.
I've peeled back
the clouds: crimson,
the sky: split,
the stars: lit like the mossed edges of a scab,
the cosmos: a ****
I'm getting weary,
all of this beneath me,
the earth becoming
a speck of dust:
absurd.
The kind of hurt you like to dole:
still there.
Can't I be an astronaut in peace?
Do you like the flattening of me,
into a pancake
like the night:
hammered and nailed
across the hemisphere?
I am the gravity-crushed,
the soul-sored, the black-hole ripped.
Opened and steaming,
I'm under the sky.
The emergency room of the brinking night drugs
and
a story of gleaming scars is my heart.
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