so much anger burns in the pits of my stomach
a cold, bitter blue flame that consumes rationality
it leaves blisters sweltering in the hollows of my bones
with a dull white noise in my head that cries out for pain
and all i can do to sate the violence is to shatter already-broken skin
and tear at an already-torn heart
and still it eats away at me,
love that has nowhere to go, love that has rotten away
and here it becomes no wonder why there is nothing left to save me

i wish i’d bled enough;
my wrists — sore from scratching,
from trying to crawl
out of this treacherous skin
my lungs — dry from screaming.
my lips — chapped from chanting prayers;

one for each gravestone in my brain —

different dates
for a single name.

and i wish i’d bled enough —
died an enough number
to never die again,

but my wrists, they still have spaces for my wounds
and my mind, it still has spaces for my tombs

and tonight, i will hold funerals
for the parts of me that bled to death,
for the parts of me that in the caskets lie
and for those that still
are yet to die.