I hope you know it's your fault.
I know you don't give a ****
because when I fell you pushed me down
and then proceeded to stand.

saying you love me and then beating me

I am not an artist but art,
and from the world-- set apart;
in life and love, the push and shove
wreaks havoc on my painted heart.

you keep your lighter
sandwiched in a niche amidst
the Spirit cigarettes
you carry, a spark
hidden in the breast-pocket
of the jacket you borrowed
from me several months ago
and neglected to give back.
like Prometheus, pilfering fire
from the gods, you stole
the warmth from the stars
and built a hearth
in my chest, a warmth
nurtured by the mirth
that tugs at the corners
of your mouth every time
you laugh at my expense.
i'll cherish your candle close
to my heart, even when life
inevitably tears us apart.
everything ends eventually,
but at least we lived
as if we'd never burn out.

i felt them sputter in and out of life
between my fingers
little tails twitched-twitc-twitched
then lay still and dormant as a bulb in winter.
fur glistened with blood and i wondered
what it means to have life
and why god has means to take it away.
lives are like candles,
blow on them too hard and they sputter out.
only those narcissistic enough to relight themselves
stay here on this earth and keep
burning away in pain until they're naught but
ashes on the ground. or in it.
so i'll light a light for the lights that died
in my hands last night,
the stench of afterbirth and sour blood
infiltrating every sense i have.
i will not soon forget that dismal dark.