this hole is insatiable
blacker every night
sleep flees through
the cracks in my windowpane

it cannot rain outside
when the thunder is from
within

just before the red
of dawn
bleeds and stains and screams
against the night;

my fingers will be
bleeding and staining and screaming
desperate words
that silence themselves
when my ink is dripping
too much red

magic is not crafted from crimson
yet crimson feeds
the howling wolf when the
moon is too blinding and
the sun too bright

crimson keeps the demons at bay
the wretched hole has had
its fill of daybreak misery;

i feel lightening clawing inside
and i bleed again
all the while it thirsts for more

maybe I have burned up
too bright -
                     my nerves are frizzled
                     and frayed

i touch
i fear
i love
           yet this dead pulse is only
           the same

as if the blood in my veins
has frozen midway

there is no heart
to be thawed

there is a wishing well
behind your eyes

and i'm throwing all my coins
all my keys
anything that
clinks
at the bottom of your irises

i'm running out of pennies;
wishing is a game of fools
but

let my heart past your eyelashes
fingers crossed for
the telltale clink
and the ripples you hide when
you blink dreams away

is it not heavy enough?
i will weigh it with a little
more rain;
more rusty coins and
maybe then you'll hear
my heartbeat
clinking
against metallic tears

i know your pupils
are not black holes
like the one i have tucked
away from sight behind my ribcage
but still

i fear that all my coins
and all my keys
are not loud enough
to whisper what i cannot
in this vacuum between us


*please just let me go

how to piece
    yourself whole?
      the black hole between your aching ribs
       is caged in your own delusions
        it doesn't hurt

of course it doesn't ******* hurt


it's only your heart, after all

sometimes my fingers bleed empty
onto lined paper
only to be lost in these words i
fear are caught in my throat
like
a metaphor i can't dig into hard enough
for it to materialize into ink and meaning and
poetry

i don't understand

isn't it dark enough?

every once in a while,
my soul sinks a little deeper
in these blue-black stains
of literate misery

i'm running out of ink.

~

as long as i have
this black canvas
and my broken paintbrush,

i'll never run out of ink.