“Name your torture,”
one of them said
I wanted an apple orchard
but I swallowed the vodka
he handed me,
I don’t believe in simplicity
or explaining the meaning behind things,
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 childhood neglect,
early childhood sibling who later hung himself with
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
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
turns to suffocation,
turns to complacent nooses I wear boastfully,
as if the greatest power comes from murdering your muses.
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?”