murder

neither wealth nor beauty
knows of forever -
spent and faded,
the candle burning at both ends
to the cinder of a singularity
beyond expression, trapped
within the prison of its potential
yet again.

you should have saved all your pain
instead of burying it beneath
your garden of scabs,
the rot you leave behind to feed
better forms of life than you could
ever be.

this imploding indulgence
of unwitnessed sacrifice -
you always knew what you were,
a dying star, eating itself
in an autoerotic suicide.

fetishize your self in
another's blindness,
an illusory echo of form, failed,
and reversed.

obscene in your agnostic celibacy,
purity is a desert of persistent craving,
yet the starvation makes you
feel alive.

Now the murder is complete,
and everyone is saved
but you.