Sunday, May 17, 2020



When you’re dead inside
You almost need to see the blood flow
To know it isn't so.
When your skin can't breathe,
Encased in this thin carapace,
There’s an urge to pierce
The merely conceptual shell
With this non abstract knife or
A broken shard of glass or,
If that’s too extreme,
A direct pointed question,
A query that echoes around
A fun house Hall of Mirrors
Where it’s just me and me and me 
In every twist I turn until,
Like a word said over and over,
(banana banana banana…)
It loses all meaning,
Reflections become being,
Existence a warped horror-show
Of comforting episodic sound,
(break the glass, the glass, the glass)
The drip drip drip of blood against the ground.


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