you can't
chart
when the
journey
starts.

it beckons
for a timeless beginning,
and a perpetual ending

this journey, defined
by the creases on my palms
but the callouses i've created, too;

it burns me alive.
      --i beg for an end. i beg for an end i beg for an--

{thus my journey has begun, and my only potential misstep could be sailing the river back home too soon}

dominant
inner rage. that
is my being -- she does
not wait idly on your
doorstep, she busts
the ******* lock
open, she swallows
you whole, red insides
churning 'round

    slithering shadow
    in the crescent of
    the light from
    under your bedroom
    door. i will haunt
you,
forever,
it is something
i am good at

mechanically speaking.

you are not the first to wear
the same beckoning, calling skin
your fine edges annulling my roots,
       and i don’t think you were the first to
****.

    **** what once was
    a ticking pocket watch, an echo
    heard only by one
    now ticking for fallen ears.

It does hurt to see things die,
but there is a certain satisfaction
In having washed hands