The night sky
is already a graveyard,
a graveyard on fire,
a graveyard like me.
My nightmares do not dispel
on waking, they take root.
My body is an iron maiden.
My blood is a wax emblem
tugging closed the pale lips
of a mouth that will never open.
My hands are two doves shattered
by their own reflections.
The more I struggle
the faster it all slips away.
That’s the thing about feelings
they have to be felt
in order for the heart to open.
Most of the time I feel
too unreal to believe in anything.
Sometimes I crush my feelings
against my spiraling fingertips
and rub out my own
metaphorical constellations
in an attempt to be closer to God
and by God I mean you.
Sometimes I sob breathlessly
into your outstretched heart
as if I were a man riddled with war.
However, protracted the death
I always rise up
with the next intake of breath.
I am my own legend.
Some weapons are made of blood
and some of the most violent wars
I know take place between
a man and himself
when no one else is watching.
Thousands of tiny crucifixes,
my fears, burn through my boundaries
It’s as if my body were made
entirely out of sin.
I write from the inside out.
I write until my fingers burn
and my naked heart chaffs.
I write on the burnt husks
of my exorcised demons
and sometimes I feel
so much that the threads
holding my organs in place
give way altogether.
mindlovemisery 