i have lied about my death
this is a heartless,
merciless world
where darkness bleeds every person i know
i shall celebrate my ignorance
no more
and use this damn knife
to pry the shit
off of my eyes
oh, how the light bleeds these people as well
did i ever tell you
that i am dying?
each night as i lie down,
i feel that much more death
settle slowly down on my skin
can you imagine
at all
what it feels like
to measure one’s life
so?
i have taken a knife
and stripped that skin
where death caked terribly on
the night before
(i am not a good liver
but there is still resolve in me)
only to find after the
bleeding and the yearning
the needing and the burning
that i am still thusly dying
(Source: cordx)
i bleed me
for the solution of it
but the blood does not soothe
its immediacy
startles and reinvigorates
the sleeper
so this time it’s a knife in the heart,
or the pills, (always the possibility of pills)
or the exhaust pipe
maybe even an exhaust pipe through the heart
or pills through the heart of my knife
i cannot coax the death
out of my blood
my poison is irrevocable
(Source: cordx)
if blood cannot heal this pain,
then where shall i turn?
they say
and they say
and they say,
“time, time, time, time, time”
but i cannot spread
patience across my heart
and wish the wound to
close
if not this blood
(my angry blood)
the tears of my body
and the offspring of my knife and skin,
then what?
my doctor is a shitty
bastard of a man
i gave him a dozen knives
to choose from
all i needed was for
him to open me up
and put one of them in my
heart and sew me back
together
to reassure me every minute
of every day that i could
always name the cause
of my sorrow
is that too much to ask?
is that a freedom one man
should be allowed to deny another?
the seduction of pain
was a beloving that i didn’t know
i was supposed to run from
she came to me so early
and with grave easy words,
slicky-coated with
what looked like salvation
to bleed
perchance to scream
to sleep
perchance to yield up
to the hungry demons and my own self-pity
my ability to ever dream again
if it is my hand on
the billy club and my rapid, rabid white knuckles
lighting up the roses in my own cheeks,
i need the vacuous empty of away
i need to know that i can
leave this place behind and
sever all references to whoever
that crazy bastard is who’s aiming
to bleed me for crimes i still
can’t begin to reckon
the want to cut
is like having a sweet tooth
that longs for
the faint hint of
salt and red
maybe it’s a bloodhand
that wants for a slight
sign of healing
any healing
because there is a simplicity
in the salvation i get when i cut myself
i know the width and the breadth of pain to expect
and i know the process by which it will heal
all of this other shit
that festers in my heart
follows no such pattern
the destruction is raggedy
and the healing is piecemeal at best
i am lost even to myself
at times like these
o, how is it that this irredeemable
thickness has settled in just behind my
eyes again?
what could i have done to
earn the need for blood,
the desire to cut and kill
this time too?
how could setting myself on
fire possibly bring back the peace and
the sweetness?
can it be that this home
is my home when i have so
rarely been inside
the song of slender metal?
sometimes i punch myself
in the face for being stupid
that should help things get
better
faster
(Source: cordx)
each day we live through a new burning of the sun
once upon a dark night i heated a paper clip
and burned the star of david on my left wrist
youth, specifically, felt like a kind of suffering to me
and i had heard someway, somehow that the people
who lived under that symbol
(for it would be some time
before the study of religion
would interest me greatly)
had suffered a good deal
i wasn’t seeking allegiance, mind you, just a symbol
to hold up against the advancing hordes,
a figure to elicit my battle cry when things
got bloody in those days, as they
invariably did
but of course i speak metaphorically,
because the whirlwind and minefield of me have
been for the most part between my ears,
as one might expect from a man who as a boy
put paperclip to wrist in effigy
i was wrong to say that
because it didn’t hurt
it opened up this big,
so huge hole
in the middle of everything
and ripped through the flesh
of darkness
inside my empty eyes
and in there,
where it all got wrecked,
nothing leaked
out
i heard no sound
it ate sound
i just know i screamed
i wanted to be
too angry
and so vomit-violent
how many times
have i seen that
though i never hear the words
i am not sad
i am not angry
i am in sorrow
and this definitely feels like home
the chaos
is mended
the suddenness
has ended
the pain has
dropped now
leaden into
my belly,
feeding only on the
waste of the waste
in preparation for
the time
when we shall all
loose ourselves
from the silent chains
and rise again
it is elementally necessary
to question the nature of being
and to begin to divine its parameters
put your hand in mine
and close your eyes
there are certain things
i can only say
silently
to your palm
tracing my adoration
across your softness
spelling my heart
on the tips
of your finger
aye, there’s the rub of it
rely on your intuition i am beginning to understand
but what if part of my intuiting says to
beat myself senseless?
how to trust it at all?
i must know the nature of the desire
for self-destruction
i must seek its core
