i left
a trail of breadcrumbs
so i could retrace my steps
following the splatters
of bird shit
behind me

discarded feathers
from the murder of crows
as they
peck the eyes
out of common sense
in these desolate woods

the only
grim tale of horror
that matters
is the one
where this world
is devoid of you

the gingerbread house
with frosting
dripping off the roof
seems more
a sexual misadventure
than lesson learned

bend the witch over
with her head
in the oven
all while playing
the role of little lost soul
in the gumdrop kingdom

combine the eroticism
of neruda
with the fatalism
of plath
until it all becomes
a twisted fantasy of give and take

the journey begins
with crumbs
on the dark forest floor
ending with
autoerotic assimilation
on the floor of a diabetic cabin