im a killer and a martyr
so i like my last lines to
linger; to
chill you;
to bring you

over your head like your bed
draped in a slowly decaying
causing some coughs,
some fits of temperature,
rotting synopsis of my
my constant adieu in drama and boot heels
clicking further away from
my lips in the rearview:
red as fresh hell,
soft like fresh pain
your new lover is plain.

wrapped in
old sheets where I used to explode
an improvised painting:
billowing carnality drawn open to reveal
a sparkling heart,
sparked once, now smoldered
at the entrance,
glossy eyes and reaching fingers
a smudged backbone

                  your ex lover’s stain

twist in the dulcet spine, one refulgent shake and
an unnatural bow towards your new lover’s

unslept, unkept, unkempt bangs and sweat,
breasts heave, fall, beg for response
and your lips once returned the question mark with a
declaration, a finality,
laconic exclamation mark and charged fuzz
nesting on my lap

                  can she feel the lake I was for you?

you, a sly river stone, sinking to the the bottom of
the nearest wet bed or the nearest
I’m dry now but

slippery like a seraphic harpoon
catching you on good days,
Saturdays in the park watching the clouds rewrite the sky and
her and I’m stuck to  your ribs,
lit like a cosmic albatross
shadowing you nightly,
Sunday night when you’re resting with loss,
American Spirits and a pet who can’t cut it,
I’m hovering through the week; you’re brainstorming
ways to save the world at work, Monday morning,
in your coffee mug, choking on
my suitor’s dried  intentions:
guzmenias, spider plants, handful of daisies, winter jasmine,
calendula, roses from the uninspired,
whatever I ask,
watered down apologies, post it notes reminding me where they will be
(forever haunting beds)
and shrinking cocks recoiling at the sight of such
rehearsed malignance.
I want my parting to be
harder than us:

a seizure in your stomach,
a rift in your lungs
where I used to rest my hands to feel the songs
you had for me
but your honeyed lips too thick with
other people’s crusted blood
to talk about it; about us.
a zephyr in your hair that tickles
sticks to your crown and moans loudly,
the way I sound when I come:
a saint dying at your altar tongue;
a parade on your timeline,
the last firework,
the first thunderstorm,
the first time someone hints at
and the pervasive door shuts.

I’m self effacing only in lines,
humbled by stark correction,
a closed fist perhaps,
a silent light that sets you on fire,
drowning in self,
all blue everything
insides rocking
tidal laments that implode in quiet, wild
stalking the world’s line.
stifled and waiting
for that envelope
you promised
reminding me I was
right about space and
time is the price.




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