the fear
that i have
cut myself
so many times
tearing off
rancid bits
and screaming
in to the aether
in lowercase
has left me
too scarred
to strike
a vein

all that
will remain
of the foolish
stain
will be a
dessicated
corpse with
an empty
birdcage
where his
heart
once hung itself.

no one sees
the scabs
they came
for the pus
the weeping
wounds
given wholly
to a dead art
slowly
starving to death
in an apropos
caricature
of poetic
splendor.