Hangman's Tree

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.