My veins are empty. There is venom in my heart. My words fall into creation, they mean the world only to themselves. Some passions are arrows, others are vines, dolorous. My passions are given, never taken, never cheated. I see them come and go, I let them do it. I see what I want to see, I wish I didn’t. What I see when I break my head: All the weakness learned, all the jealousy carved, all the worry and rage of countless choked nights. I see these things scurry away if I think of you, the right love, the right to love. If not, then these things, all these paralytic children, become sharp edges in the viscera. Become the jaw scraped on asphalt. Become the bile stuck in my mouth. I could be so foul. I can be so desperate.
I once considered being a walking suicide as a novel idea.
I once thought that love was a dead road paved with boredom.
There is more in the world than just love. The world is bigger than you. I know this but I forget. I lose sight of you at times and I keep putting paste on my foot. I keep screaming at the dinner table. Useless words. Useless sight. There is no meaning beneath my skin and muscle. There is no light in between the wind. Our motions are pulled by thin ropes leading back into twisting darkness. Endless, immeasurable black. That’s where we point. We say what it says.
It makes me sick, vomitous and weary.
It makes me reach towards an evisceration.
It is malignant and it won’t stop.
