blinded and uncomfortable,
once by lies and fear, now decrepit
the stem running up my back and
its wretched and cursed flower
wilt sixfold ever since the thunder,
the lightning that you unleashed on me,
stolen rouge, broken plumbing -
trying to be more than the damage you left behind.
no butterflies for this mess
conquered and destroyed by downpour, sunburst;
only a mouth full of ocean -
shuddering waves towards the blood moon -
and the remnants of your solipsism
more real to me than my own beating heart.
now, blinded by formal realism and your belligerence,
crimson clouds against inevitable death,
i know you can now see the light
no blades you need to hurt me
no delicately decaying words of devotion
for i always begin with you
and then diverge, disintegrate;
a mockery, mayhem, a survivor of bedlam
could i ever be more than the damage you left behind?
