Sweat drew borders betwixt sole and floorboard,
death grips asphyxiating,
my own upon the door,
the one you held shut,
as he drew near.
My innocence ripens,
and forms an ocean beneath my feet.
It slips between the cracks in the floor.
Dissociating, it flees
after fighting
tooth and nail
to reward me a final illusion.
No hope within it’s
murky semblance.
This can’t be happening.
I should have fought back.
But I did not know
at the time
what fighting was.
I hate myself.
I didn’t fight back.

I am blind now,
and fail to remember each crease, like silken spiderwebs
meandering meaninglessly in their aimless nihilism,
little groups of jutted frowns sprouting from the corners of your eyes,
each hue colorless,
each hue void.
My rivers ran red
and ran aplenty
down flushed cheeks,
and looking into your eyes
how I wanted to die,
and you said “No you don’t.”
But I felt nothing,
because I heard it in your voice.
I felt it in your touch…

Skeletal stick figures,
pulled close…
I hear the rattle,
held together by gum
and rubber bands.
Why did you touch me like that?
I took it in stride,
as you forced me astride,
with each violation,
inaudible murmurs,
your non-existent lips
I hear the echo,
I hear it still.
"You need help."
I am a ghost.
I am the ghost of you.
I don’t hear you anymore.
I am the ghost still lingering.

I fight the urge to feel.
Great white gravity
There is no escape.
Clusterfucks of blood and bones,
we try to escape.
Scratching, clawing, dumbstruck,
I am hypnotized.
I am ingrained.
I am endless.
I am eternal.
But we are fleeting
and a beautiful face
is a grim reality
because it does not erase
unquenchable sorrow
instead amplifying
unwinnable stakes.
Chasing happiness
we find only tragedy
laced in ribbons of bliss,
perpetually fleeting.

So call me an ambulance,
Because self-destruction will be my remembrance.
A pair of scissors
intersects a section,
gives way for you to enter.
I carve to force you closer,
my blood a breadcrumb trail,
a schism for my ism.

But as the fog lifted
for the first time,
I saw myself.
I was so beautiful.
I saw myself in you,
uncompromising softness
tenderness redefined,
gentle still, compassion ripening.
You reach to touch
as if touching for the first time,
full of wonder,
full of hope.
But within such bleakness
you’re sweltering still.
The numbing apathy,
refrigerated, restrained
deflated and barren
incandescent beams protruding still.
They cry for help
screeching, shrieking,
"help me.
Fucking help me.”
delicate streams
Tender, tentatively
strokes, mesmerizes,
metamorphisizes, inflates,
and explodes.
Your affection is razorblades,
it merely empowers
downward spirals.
This is pointless.
We are doomed.
I cannot touch.
I can’t reach out
to grasp,
to afflict
your thin velvet, your
smooth silk, delicate,
flexing like plastic melting.
I carve, I force you hollow.
Catalysts corroding.
Your innards strewn implies
you have to leave.

Lost in the vacancy,
unrestrained, finally.
To touch, a traumaless thing.
The cold, it’s thawing.
Encased in blankets of stars.
Dissociating, my innocence and me,
we are eloping.
We drive aimlessly into recovery,
before the wormhole takes me,
it wakes me; the spider’s web,
reality — my starry eyes,
once bright and screaming…
They shout silently,
my purity without me.

Yes, the wormhole wakes me.
Its tragedy frees me of my apathy.
But the science of sleep,
it can’t always save me.
It drains me,
my skin contorting,
concaving and sinking, a dry husk,
though pain plumps gleefully,
moistens me, expanding, ripening.
I need you now.
Let me vomit all over you.
I have so much to give.
Let me slither inside of you.
Bombs over Baghdad inside of you.
Your ragdoll form loved glacially,
fucked distantly, cut discreetly.
Fucked selfishly, a spawn inside you now,
a bomb inside you now.
Waiting to be set free.
To flutter eagerly.
To be or not to be.

And delicacy refines,
it cultivates; it pulls you in
to graze each knee with parted lips,
and bated breaths, with growing urges and
feverous thirsts,
a sense of tact drained slowly of it’s succor
as it fails to hold back,
restless yen.
Aphrodisia binge brings antipathy of self.,
the bitterness of self perception
bangs unending within
a skull too hollow..
The bittersweet too sour.
Dysphoria scratches and scrapes.
Fissures within become fissures betwixt
evolvement and defect, my brain a hydroplane, deformity.
I sink I submerge.
It’s not rape; I’m willing,
dual wields derailing, obsolete; pain.
My personal prison, a true partition,
victim ridden — blood deluge,
As if it’s all I have,
the torrents utterly endless.

In utero,
the sickness is squirming,
looming, every spiral cycling across
your war torn face, a
vast dystopia, paved once
like porcelain, disturbed
like shipwrecks shimmering
beneath, dissipating into obscured,
obsolete vacancy.
You used to crawl close, in solace,
yet sickness slithering, looming,
every cycle spiraling,
in retrospect realizing
you don’t love.
You don’t feel anything.
You don’t feel a thing
where love should be.
The muted hum of a heart rate monitor,
out of focus, unaccompanied, out of tune.
The curtains, drawn closed.
No applause, rather silence deafening.
Ensnared, I stare, the sole audience member,
a face once flushed, suddenly foreign; objectively hollow.
I hold only tighter, a sea of dead stars encircling, dumbstruck,
aimlessly pivoting in and out of nothingness,
selfishly wondering if there is such a thing as soulmate simulacrum.
Unquenchable vacancy, horrid wilting, the end is always near,
always lingering, the end is always near, and every smile,
a step away from falling flat
as grim realities are realized, as life is understood.