so decent with me,
to need affection, to rub my body—so bled out, so judgmental, so lenient. a
latent fury, a dormant fire, the world has killed me—furnace flame, oven hands,
such an actress—made angry, made gorgeous, as losing sanity. too much remorse,
flying off course, if we love, let us die. some mission, seated in space, so
tragic, so defeated, like hands all to my business; the flurry of the rose, the
angst of heaven, please! another glass!
if to love me, let it be vampires, let it be curses, let it be bodies
laughing. if butterflies, let’s uncage, if tragic, let’s fly, if Kristen S.,
let’s remember our suffering. it
was lethal, the honor, so uncured by pride; a person I want, a phantom I need,
a good man is a dying man—for many reasons, for many bars, morals breaking
bone, fevers left unattended, rights, vanquished. if to take issue, if pain is tender,
if so caught in self—to imagine right ladders, midnight doorknobs, juggling
where knuckles have been; so often on that page, ink leaking lies, we can’t
keep our souls; running to sanity, rebuked by sanity, trying to grip its
cousin, mind-work. so terrible
it feels good, so fretted—we did more, or essential trying absence—the love
travesty, it was so beautiful, it was a special, gracious hurting.
