McCannot (prodigalsun) wrote,

this lump in my throat is probably just cancer.

lust is just love in its fetal state and
i choose abortion,
one mute, monochrome depiction of red
encrusted on the sterile tile of regret:
be out by wednesday.
all's fair in love & war:
this, by process of elimination, is obviously war.
your words were sticks and stones.
the second i opened
my flak jacket of pessimism,
you exploded.
the only trace you will leave
is a cockroach infestation
and a learned lesson,
drunk-driving myself to distraction
through imaginary blue rooms
like a broken record,
your graffiti on the boxcars
of my train of thought,
derailing into a hiss of steam and screaming.
my love has never been so violently unrequited,
has never been spat back at my feet
like a mouthful of blood and teeth.
i will never again mistake pure
for empty.
the petals of narcissus
will never wilt.
i suckle myself plump
on my own orphan breasts
and i gingerly lick
my apartment's wounds
and hold images of you
under the dirty dishwater
until they stop kicking.
blue eyes are just the absence of pigment,
just proof that your maker
gave up on the details.
past tense
can finally relax,
is swaddled in tomorrow
and a self-portrait
in my wallet
so i can flash my true love
from barstool to barstool.
i crunch numbers
beneath my boots:
twice the rent, twice the electric,
twice the self-respect.
it will be okay.
i do not have to sleep
in the frigid shadow
of a stranger's turned back.
i steep myself in vodka
until my bare feet feel
as if the snow
is as warm as powdered bone.
without you,
i will dream of staircases,
of a cup of coffee,
of home,
of cornicopias,
of silken statues,
of poison ivy tourniquets,
of a pulse,
of the peaches and cream sun of the north
in memories always either rising or setting,
slathering white birch in its butter,
sycamore palms raised greenly to the heavens,
praising the lack of a god.
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