Even my bones are red.
I am full of apostrophes
And irrational yearnings
But I am still meager
Not for want but for the shame of being.
Regret is a dish of starvation,
I wane even as I consume.
For every encounter there exists
An existential debate.
What have I done and to what end?
Why do my pieces fall wherever my feet attend?
Is Narcissism really the opposite of self-loathing
Since they both condemn a man to preoccupation?
And doesn’t any man who recognizes himself
In the mien of another lash out in self-preservation?
My demons occupy their smiles,
My blood their throats.
Paper dreams remain stationary
However, pronounced the creases.
There is dignity in the effort it takes to lose
In the addition of heart into any occupation.
Nothing lasts as long as a scar
It can be passed through generations,
It can slip into the backs of others like a shiv.
If you see Mara in passing say hello
But do not linger in conversation.