God, you are a knot in my chest
that became a tangled nest of snakes and every time I look at you one of those serpents sinks it’s sizable incisors into my liver.
Or my heart or my stomach
and I become ill for days and this is why I can’t look at you.
The space where I got soft and free when you uttered the clumsy, ugly syllables of my name
Where I melted upon your slightest glance
Is now coated in thick, dripping, noxious webs of poison I painted with my own hands (although you may have drawn out the sketch)
I tore out chunks of flesh that you marked on my thighs and back
To maybe make them new again
But every act is futile. Weak, and laughable, as soon as you lay a fresh hand upon mine. The old play is re-enacted and everything I once felt becomes new again
The spring will never come for me.
Every night in my dreams I live on repeat and it’s fucking torture.
I am a weak and cowardly creature.
Even every inch of my writing is wreathed by your breath
stop, please, god, just let me pass.
For the past few months the burning in the back of my throat has raged on like the bright red flare I sent up when I blew out my tire on the freeway
It burns and I deserve the scorch marks of the sparks that rain down.
You want to help me but we’re all honestly alone.
I can’t stop smoking and right now,
it may be the kindest thing that could kill me.