some days
when the light
refracts
off the wayward eye
of utter devotion
splitting
nto isotopically intrinsic
morning showers
comprised of
shuddering
sorrowdaggers
with ebon blades
hungering
for the heartblood
dripping
from the open
blossoms of pale purple
thistleweed
choking
constricting
the diaphragm
until all that is left
is a hazy reflection
in the mud puddle
beneath
crackling neon
signs of the incoming
apocalyptic
something or other
to see
i am nothing
more than
a collection of
it’s not me
it’s you
scrawled in lipstick
on the mirror
she installed
above the bed
where dreams
were
the second sweetest
fantasies
to play out.