Final Moments

Its another Saturday night
and I’m supposed to contain earthquakes
erupting from this broken field of heartbeats.
But I can’t. These tremors are overwhelming.
Everything I said last night was a multitude of
natural disasters. Between forest fires
and tsunamis all colliding within howling blizzards,
you are always found inside the eye of my storm.

I have rage inside of me in the likes
of love I used to carry for you.
Every time you left I replaced the empty space
with a single black bird nesting the pits of my stomach
so now I am mistaken for a brittle branch holding multiple flocks
of fallen crows, so when they begin to cry
they whisper in precise detail how I will die
because harbored feathers will always wish to fly.
They will become mourning doves with their coo’s
as my only funeral song, while you play a violin.
With bloodied hands and purple knuckles, you
have the audacity to believe peeling your skin
would really silence the stench.

You pluck my petals and then become angry
when I have no more aroma left.
I have stopped blooming because
I am afraid of giving myself to you again.
Tell me my soils are littered with evil.
As if snakes could slither between vines waiting for prey.


I tell you. “I’d be better off if you were dead” as if
my tongue is the only whip
against your bare back while
wearing a crown made of thorns
except this time, you refuse
to die for either of our sins.
Instead you wish to hold tombstones
against your lips and that is why
after killing me time and time again,
you always come back to claim my corpse.

In the last hour of your ocean eyes
suffocating my damaged lungs, you continue
to pour salt inside swollen eye sockets stinging sightless scenes.
I have sung these verses for choirs
and they all gasp at the same details
because when the McDonald's girl said to me,
“Let your man buy your food I wouldn’t complain”
I brushed it off because I hope she never has to
hold nuclear force all because
he refuses to kiss you, but wants to f**k you.

You seek other pretty boys while
pretending to look at me, only long enough
to frame my naked body, except this time
I wore a baggy sweater and track pants
so you couldn’t outline the couture
of my fractured skeleton from your knives
hidden behind fingertips.

my eyes are not rose petals,

my heart not a white dove,

my love
when they say hell is empty,

they haven't been inside
my mind -

here

you'll find horrors

of a sweet kind.

I carry rage inside of me
as the likes of love I used to have for you,
and if I cannot indulge in one, I must
taste the other; I am no Frankenstein,
and you are no creator.
Your silence now hangs in the air
like waiting in the clinic,
that sssssshhhhh,
don’t tell nobody about Friday night’s events,
but I’ll never be content with being
your back door hoe, your
something on the side,
your something to destroy during
your lonely nights, your freak show.
I will never be reduced to a s**t,
a f*g, a size queen,
and I will never lower my bedroom floor
before I ever become another one of your
taxidermy pieces of a*s hanging on the mantle of sin and lust.

But most importantly, the last thing
you said was
my love is one’s
love for a fish,
because I loved you so
I killed you
only to dismember
and eat you,
but truth is,
you just made
me f*****g puke

again.