Decomposed and spouting methane
I lie beneath incorporeal trees.
They breathe and bask in the glory
of the thing I used to be.

I tolerate the buzzards with their
hunger for my eyes.
I tolerate the wolves with their
insufferable cries.

Yet even in death I cannot stand it.
I cannot stand your burning love.

The wax drips and
I am but a wick,
fueling your feast of heart.

The cloth rips and
I am but a mannequin,
a grotesque manifestation of your art.

Pin me up in your fields,
in your fields of acrylic and oil.
In your fields of photographs
and I'll enrich your soil.

I'll be your scarecrow,
voiding their caws.

I'll be your mule,
working myself raw.

i want to write
a happy poem
but
the ink of this pen
is color gray
and blue*

©IGMS

Back to this kind of pain.
Creeping through the holes of my window
and the dark corners in my room.

Do I need the salvation of my blade?
Do I want it?
I made a promise.

Promises,promises...
Promises I could never keep
Will I break it this time?