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If intentions wielded knives, I would
slit you from sternum to stomach,
neck to navel,
wide open.
Peel back puckered skin
to examine your insides.

Where are the parts of me
that have been stolen?

If there was one wish tonight
it would be for you
to crawl out from behind my eyelids;
the darkness is long
and passes slowly
when thoughts
are solely of you.

What kind of fuckery have we become?
How much longer must we rake across coals
the dying carcass
of this rotting fruit?
My heart has spoiled
into grapes of wrath
left out in the sun,
dreams deferred
for far too long
while you play baby
with soiled britches,
content to wallow in your own excrement
as I make amends for your messes.

No longer shall I play Magdalen
to your bullshit god complex;
confined to the role of beggar
stumbling through your crowded streets;
heavy hearted and empty handed
living off scraps you lay at my feet.
(if you must know,
i love you with the finality of suicide.
the bravery of allowing lips
bearing razor blades
to caress the skin of tender necks.
i love you
with the necessity of respiration,
inhaling your exhalations
until breath
turns shallow when you stray too far.)
But in your absence,
I am a tomb.
The final resting place for your promises
through midnight's twisted sheets.
Man in the moon
why must you mock me
with your cycles of indecision?
The night grows cold
and I've crown tired
of waiting
on future destinations.

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