The damage is done,
I remember now.
Your blood on my forearm,
There were wires,
stroking the back of your neck.
My hair smelled like gasoline.
We were drinking it,
The sky was crying,
and the road was in pieces.
You let go of my hand.
the one with the crystal knob.
You shouldn’t watch this part.
brushing their teeth with red paste.
cracked in two:
a jewelry box.
The ballerina who broke her legs,
lying in the bathtub,
her bun undone.
The curtains are yellow,
and your wrists are pink,
pressed against the glass.
Make a wish.
Are you afraid,
of the games your god played?
Of the red death,
a savior made of meth?
Are you bothered,
disturbed by your brother’s conquest?
By the collared snake,
wrapped around your lover’s throat?
Are you deaf,
falling inside the abyss of your own head.
Can you hear me?
What did the word of god decree?
More like the devil.
The body is a liar.
The body is a prison.
It has the early on-set signs of paranoia,
with cautious skin and structured organs.
It holds the heart hostage,
ribs casting shadows over each other.
Blood is a moat,
keeping life inside the throat.
One cut and you will see,
just how fragile life can be.
Writers are murderers in their own right,
sealing fates with words of contrite.
It is on the carcasses of trees that they ink their tales,
Blood is the ink by which they use,
blackened by the deaths it has transduced.
Employed are a writer’s words of guise,
capable of telling both truth and lie.