everytime you turn away i carve another piece of myself in a flaccid attempt at recalling your divine attention

it began with occam’s razor down my wrist, the simplest solution seemed likely the best

you removed your shoes and stomped the grapes of my wrath into a delicate whine, fermented in casks of anonymity, better than rotting on the vine of misabused displeasure

still i shed the detritus of woken agony, the fingers that stroked your hair, the tendons that pushed frozen feet forward, until all that was left was to crawl, to drag this husk across the ballroom floor

an ear in which to hear, in an effort to stop van goghing insane, a canterbury pound of flesh, the chaucer special for you to feast

suicide by literary device, cleaving the gordian knot you tied around my soul, a sleeping draught then a dagger to the heart

the scent of wildflowers now hemlock, the honeyed lips now brine, the yellow brick road is stained with rust

still i cut

hoping you’ll turn around before there is nothing left