Inanimate

as you leak long and slow

worrying about rupture

all hunched over wincing

drunk off pain

you take a break from monotony

it’s raining outside right now

but that doesn’t matter what matters

is pain staring back at you thru a mirror

the absence of soul and meaning

knowing that if you could see forever

that there would be an infinite number of you

although artificial

as the cold fluid supposedly water touches

your fingers suddenly stopping somehow automatically

when you should stop feeling

if only you’d stop feeling

That Time

on the turnpike

we stopped the car

after arguing

behind the rest stop

machines traveling

so fast

the end is coming

but it already passed

you confessed

those horrors

you thought it gone

did he really do that?

how can it be

sad and not surprised

heard it all before

Regret, Recalcitrance

How long does it take for you to bleed from your fingertips?

Medicine does not help dissimilar apes.

The television is right for once.

I am sorry, dad, I know you smell the smoke.

I know I let you down, I let myself down too.

I cried my eyes out so I could not see my mother anymore.

There was this metal plate pushing down on my head.

My second grade teacher did not care.

We were punished for not knowing how to spell “because”.

She did not teach us, it was ingrained.

Hey, little girl, I know that your insides hurt.

It makes me so sad to know that something could have been done.

My stomach hurts as well.

I felt your face in no one ever.

Pulled myself to touch,

held it for a grasp,

lost it all in passing.

False Prophet, Chapter 7: These Beating Wings

It’s that time of year again. That time I stuff shit down my throat. The hours spent with sliding excrement clogging the tubes. The bright red blood in my stool. The shining fluid ejected. The dull and dense glorious empire, stuck upside down, cracked into two, withering away until drunks usurp the shattered throne. Would you rather be ruled by barbarians or perverts? You have no other choice. Rip out your hairs one by one, until your shoulder blades lament from forcing those imaginary feathers which were once all pieced together. Your liver is plucked from your gullet, and you can hardly choke. You reference that which you have learned time and time again. You repeat the process, you mimic others words. Then you do nothing, and you exist again. The same rhythmic sound turns itself over and over and you molest him from above. You control it from behind. You discover the power that inhabits within, you crave it just so you can abandon the pain. Your soul is damned.