as much as i
scratch and tear
at the tenebrae
between hearts
beating themselves
slowly to death
you’d think that
i would have
clawed some sort
of portal to
escape this hell
of tangentially
aching agonies

broken fingernails
leaving bloody odes
across every
available surface in
crimson streaks
of clotted longing
cramping fingers
grasping at smoke
seeking signs of hope
in the lingering
echoes of distantly
milquetoast melancholies
in meandering malaise