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shooting blood
onto the grey and black pages
of a blank obituary
in tomorrow's paper.
donating
whatever bullshit
and broken teeth
are left
to random strangers,
a slack jaw
unable
to corroborate
the stories
between
my image
and my emotions.
whatever's left
can be consumed
by a plague
of bacteria,
advertisements,
and panic.
sitting in a car,
immersed in shivers and sweat,
sick,
and
alone,
looking at the memories
of former lovers
carved inside my skull,
comparing it to their
recent pictures:
twisted tongues,
limp wrists,
dyed hair,
brittle limbs,
punctured lungs,
swollen eyes,
cracked skin,
and brown bodily fluids
oozing out of nostrils,
into white bathroom sinks,
swirling down the drain.
no amount of make-up
or editing
can hide the fact
that they are
ugly and
missing a pulse,
like me.
but
the difference is
i don't hide it.
the difference is
i hide a trick up
my sleeve
no one will ever learn
until it's performed.
shh...it's a secret.
whispering words
softly into a void
in the dying light.
confessions hanging
in the air like
criminals with
ropes made out of
thousands of interlocking hands
gripping their necks.
if someone comes
across my body,
just let it rot
or
throw it
in the trash.
my sympathies
for the delay.