there’s this girl I killed.

she’s dancing for me
in black panties,
black blindfold,
morose and cloying smile,
and a disengagement about her
every move.
the hallway is closing in on her:
it is inches from her bare breasts
speckled with black marks, charred
from spare matches when she conflated
masochism with trust
long before I ever came along.

when uncloaked, I breathe in
her sterility: a virescent mass
growing from her chest;
toxic moss that threatens the whole forest
everytime she hoped
her wounds would be given a sadist
to hold them,
and they left.
her eyes fall on mine like heavy snow
in early May: it blinds,
it’s unexpected
and it damages everything
nascent in the ground.

it’s like the way the moon drives men
to madness when she disrobes;
I can see the lunar cycles ripping death
from her insides, as she goes and sings
and stings with a ferocious sadness.
when she should have grown tulips
shaped like daughters,
she instead slashes at them
like a God on fire
begging to be humanized,
touched with bare hands,
begging to be boxed
one last time.

each time she smiles,
she is gnashing teeth.
she is twirling and absorbing that
her cervix is a bleak garden
poisoned by words I never say.
she pours it out in blizzards
killing every growth I haven’t.
when she cries
it’s like a baby’s first gasp,
their first grasp at separation,
she goes all night without stopping.
even while held, even while
rocked, she is screaming
in hell.
she is alone and all sorts of wrong,
I am with her but already gone.
there is all sorts of turbulence in that space.
she licks her lips and states:
sobriety taught me how to slink to fit
into the crawl spaces of depravity
but remember it, and I
am on the brink of fitting inside each one
of those carved cavities
if only to prove
I can handle the worst of everything
there ever was, and come out of it
a champion for no one.

there’s this girl I killed.
the blossoms are stained with black ice.
everyone is celebrating a resurrection of water,
and she’s thirsty.
(you’re too small for that basin)
she’s sunk,
evaporated and coming back to haunt;
raining like God
crying for more Sisyphean sacrifice.
a storm of a kind that wears the equator;
how she bore the world on her spine.

there’s a crack in the world tonight
and it is I
who have opened it
this time.



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