“Name your torture,”
one of them said
cutely.
I wanted an apple orchard
but I swallowed the vodka
he handed me,
willingly.

I don’t believe in simplicity
or explaining the meaning behind things,
especially mine,
like my locket or my essay or the way I choose
complicity over ascension every time.
I had a mission to destroy my darkness,
but darkness has a way of consuming all it follows.
started to explore and name every puncture:
early childhood rape,
early confessions,
early childhood neglect,
early childhood sibling who later hung himself with
vodka ropes.
there are only two sentences I’m after:
birth and fatality.

I asked someone to stay awhile
while I calmed my own poltergeist
and he just wanted to hold
hands and watch me cry
without connivance,
without delusion
alluding in silence that I don’t need the completion,
I need the space to see the illusions I created are
in dire need of straightening before my ire turns to
rueful violence,
turns to suffocation,
turns to complacent nooses I wear boastfully,
as if the greatest power comes from murdering your muses in words you used
too rapidly.

my madness looms sometimes;
a distant thunder that doesn’t spark, and
I only hear voices when they’re booming
so God usually delivers things in a way I hate to get me to
cut my own intestines from the ceiling
where I hang out most days.
God demands I stay,
but I say:

“Well, if you’re not going to kill me or fuck me,
what are you even doing here anyway?”

“today”

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