I could be a chrysanthemum
in the hands of a child
or a bronze bell
sitting stupefied in the shrine
of any number of saints.
But I am more like an unshakeable ferocity
that forms itself again and again
in the jutting of hips
and the gnashing of teeth.
–
My emotions are vengeful spirits,
torches burning blue
in the fanatical condolence
that is sleep.
A heart which is part stomach,
a pelvis gutted like a Jack-O-Lantern,
a fan of hands which sweep away
the remains of a day
that ended on a sour note.
–
Happiness is rage.
Sorrow is a kind of seething hatred.
Intimacy can only be found in softness.
To overcome me
is to breach the invertebrate shell.
It is the palest of deaths.
–
I have given birth to infinities
and to a thousand screeching indignities.
The waves are restless about me.
I travel beneath them
like a hunter whose only weapons
are that which can reasonably fit inside the body.
Blood, bones, and organs.
–
Vulnerability cannot be extinguished.
It is the best and worst of what a man can be
and the sharpest of blades.
I have tasted and tortured.
I have walked up the wall
and back down again
without a sense
of where I am going.
–
mindlovemisery 