It’s voyeuristic the way you searchfor answers in these cries for help,and how you see Death’s fingersbut always think they’re paintbrushes.
I felt happier yesterday. I do not feel happy today – I feelabandoned and godless and brokenin a church built for the damnedwith artificial light through stained glassand warped wooden doors.
I am still trying and trying to exorcise youbut you cling to me like mud or bloodstains,like a battlefield fought in my imaginationevery day that I raise my pen against the swordyou used to slice my heart into small, bitter pieces.
When I wake from my nightmaresI’m more afraid of the breath in my lungs than whatever might be chasing me.
I want her sinful arms wrapped around me,bloodied and angry and triumphant in shame.
I cut off all my hair, cut awayat the soft curves of my clothinguntil I have edges once again,using my body like broken glassto slice at the world around me.I have to take something back,because I have nothing more to
Some people unfold into a thousand wordsand others never speak to me at all,never take the blame at all,never look at me at all – I wonder whyhe never looks at me at all (perhapshe cannot bear to meet my eyes).
You have constellationsgrowing under your skin.starlight in the blood spilledwhen they stole your feathers
In the darkness and the snow, the street is emptyand it is just the night, the ice and me.
There are, in places, fallen angelswho in their iniquity and desolationlinger like a stranger on a foggy night,sustained by the misdeeds of city-dwellersand spurred on by bitter hatredfor their bright kin moving past them.
In my mind he is a demon and a godand I blame him, I blame him, I blame himfor the world I created on my ownas much as the one he built around me.