Voids and Vertices

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In you, I gravitate toward the wild and unpublished.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?

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