I sow voids into vertices.
The divots and protrusions,
the brokenness that yields to humanity.
The machine in me,
stains like a decaying sunset.
In you there is a slice of flesh,
red and innocent that reeks of me.
When in my care it was ecchymotic
and uncompromisingly guilty.
To all the monsters, I know,
what it means to be hunted,
to be pulled inside out in the guise of civility.
My sour mouth sputters,
sick of silent alphabets
and indigestible tracts of pride
rare and expansive.
I envelope the cutaneous,
the blatant and insubstantial
but I cannot abide the tenets.
Is it such a crime to be intrinsic?
In you, I gravitate toward the wild and unpublished.
Can two strangers ever really coexist?
I am not turned off by your strangeness
but my own continuously defeats me.
All disease comes from a lack of space
but in you alone I breathe.
Is that not reason enough to consummate?