We thought we merely scratched the surface

in reality  
we carved out a fissure    
right down    
to the pretty pink bone marrow    
   
i tried to stitch    
a cord threaded    
with remnants    
of dust and ice    
between the fossa    
of my ribcage    
to keep the    
whimpers frozen    
before spilling out    
onto your mother's    
freshly spritzed carpet    
but my stupid hands    
kept shaking    
and the threads    
would start to unfasten    
after every two-ta-three loops    
   
the wound stretched    
further    
clawing its way    
into my heart    
and eventually    
ingesting my conviction    
(as most frustrated black holes    
often do)    
and all i could bare    
to stomach in that moment    
was to hyperventilate    
in frantic    
wonderland hysterics    
collapsing to the floor     
bending urgency    
into submission    
and begging a hypocrite's prayer    
to please    
fuck just    
please    
sleep it off    
   
i haven't left this room    
in five days    
and there are    
so many words    
locked inside of me     
that i can't express    
without gorging    
on this phantom fucking    
blood    
brimming in my mouth    
and gaping    
in my chest    
so i clench my jaw    
before i drown    
but the narratives    
in my thoughts    
are feral impulse creatures    
demanding gore    
between their teeth    
and denouncing sleep    
in favor of    
a ritual moon    
sickness    
and unrequited    
fever dreams    
that burrow endless tunnels    
into my brain    
like liquefied kisses    
of dopamine    
i've disciplined myself    
not to think about    
   
not to write about    
talk about    
   
so instead    
i'll distract myself    
and say that    
i know    
you saw the driveway    
in my soul    
how it was    
littered with poetry    
peaking out of harsh cracks    
where brown and verdant    
speckled climbing plants    
wove themselves    
together    
in abundance    
until they intertwined    
like hands clasped    
tightly    
in affirmation    
reaching out    
for the sunshine    
   
the tiny dingy house    
that stood at the far end    
of the lot    
had peeled itself of paint    
years    
before your visit    
slightly arched    
its old bones    
spoke defiance    
in verse akin to a witches tongue    
and the weather    
responded in kind    
the only way    
it knew how-    
as a midnight cry    
of lightning    
penetrating    
loud and swift    
mirroring a barrage of bullets    
nosediving    
from the sky    
   
It's wooden stairs remained intact    
yet the porch    
had caved    
with a swing set hunched    
in the way i imagine    
a child might    
in the absence    
of family value-    
piled onto itself    
and buried  
earthed    
in a safe space    
where the world    
couldn't touch it    
a journal of memories    
and    
mason jar dreams    
were whittled out    
by stainless steel boots    
dragged across    
its surface    
some time ago    
unapologetic    
and the color of    
blue girl    
swan songs    
   
only a marble statuette    
overviewing    
the tangled yard    
remained polished    
and fully intact    
perched proudly    
and ambiguous    
atop a single    
out-of-place    
modest granite slab    
in pensive fearlessness    
a faceless monarch    
on display for the insects    
to march around    
dutifully in envy    
   
you paused    
and stared with intrigue    
as if    
there was some sort of    
ulterior meaning    
or possible unconventional    
confession    
manifested    
within its structure    
something less abstract    
laying in wait    
that might be decoded    
if analytically grafted    
to the soft    
underside of your palms    
in patience    
long enough    
before i could decide    
we went in    
too deep    
   
it's been    
six days now    
clutching the walls    
with a bpd    
panic head    
twisted    
somewhat on a molecular level    
to these shadows    
taking form    
in early morning reminder    
of the    
screams    
echoing    
between my temples    
and occasionally    
doing somersaults    
for    
disassociated asphyxiated musicians    
   
i tried to escape    
but my shotgun    
powdered skull    
is determined to prolong    
any possible    
smothered    
dead weight    
projections    
ready for symptomatic reactions    
to a bitter writers    
crisis    
of self imprisonment    
despite a memo    
i left in ode    
to the    
everlasting human condition    
last November    
   
'I think i must be dying    
here in this shallow    
metallic tasting    
temerity    
stubbornly wrenching    
aborted secrets    
out of    
me'     
   
all i really want    
to do    
is relapse    
next to a pack    
of crumpled marlboros    
5 feet from a dumpster    
where i once swore    
i caught    
god    
indefinitely    
folded over    
against    
and in agony    
crying out for guidance    
in the streetlights    
as if the universe    
wasn't already infinitely    
far too busy    
for    
the likes of    
(us)    
   
and you know damn well    
i don't enjoy    
the sensation of my naked breasts    
pressed    
into someone else's    
blanket    
much less    
this slippery kitchen knife    
sculpting insistent    
anecdote    
vulnerability    
across my flesh    
in the names of    
volatile words    
i can't express    
without gorging    
on this phantom fucking    
blood    
brimming in my mouth    
and gaping    
in my chest