I still know that I still hate myself, and so I’ll make my shelter with a toolbox, hammer broken all my limbs to pave the way for wings. I’ll pave the way for wings, and I’ll make something cleaner out of me, even if I have to sterilize myself with fire.

in summer suns, the
broken rungs of a trailing ladder
are clung to by black adders;
and i see her hardly breathing
like a crying cloud above me.

i have heard
that i
deserve
some peace
and to forgive and live like i have never done,
but she’s still so far above me
and i know, i know, i know
my mind is where the poison goes;

but she bled me almost-dry and
i still can’t breathe, i still can’t breathe
because i’m still so scared and so still i must believe

she’ll climb down each broken rung
and one by one she’ll reach for me

until i break to her
again

rust skeletons
of swingsets
offer only
rusted wings ; 

she glares at
gut gold walls
that leaden 
veins and other
prone-to-be-too-heavy
things, she swings

with ruddy palms
and rage; 

she tries to scratch the eyelets in the sky
but nothing says goodbye like taking flight
but then, nothing says goodbye
nothing says goodbye

you feed
the demons
with peels
in your breath
and here you struggle
broken-

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you loved once
at the glimpse of bruises ; you
sheltered monsters in your arms 
until the violet wells began to swell
and your bones began to break —

   can you
shake
    the filth off, can you
shake
    the pain away?   

revisit your mistakes and bash your skull against the wall until you’re numb, fall dumb so they can scald you ; you’ve never had a problem with them leaving 
    but why do people stay?

you have something in your blood that wills them to you 
and the cycle keeps repeating, you keep bleeding
the more you hate yourself, the more they tend to love you
 
so keep the monsters feeding, sweetheart
keep the monsters feeding

we bled oceans in an open field while salt beat pain into our wounds. she broke our wrists and we broke our kneecaps, like a senseless martyr who could not be further from a saint, we

spilled our insides onto green and sinking seas, and she broke her arms while she watched us struggle.

don’t you love me, she would scream against the storm
struggle if you love me
struggle if you love me

and we began to drown. she broke her fingers stealing from us,
and we broke our spine in the tangles of the seaweed —

she broke our heart a thousand times
 and she broke her skull
to devour
ten years of our life.

chasms in the fabric of your heart —
threads gaping wide in disarray 
go away, go away, go away don’t stay
inside us do not stay
distress bleeding blind spots in your senses
and whole chasms in the fabric of your heart

there are fingerprints among them
and the core of desperation
as you cut away the human skin
(their skin does not belong to you, it
does not belong on you )

and you tear yourself to pieces 
set fire to your heart 
and you choke upon the words they say 
and you keep begging you keep begging
with the fabric of your soul in wild disarray:

leave yourself an introduction from the doorstep
no name nor hug nor kiss and anyway and anyway

(you cradle close your knees)

the human touch is made of nightmares
and we have enough of these

you’re a coward
crumbling in the wake of [your] names
and like your heavy lungs that crushed your legs, 
you are crushed by the weight of the game —
always waking whispers at your back, you
can’t relax you can’t relax you
are
a
coward
with the memory of their spit in your blood
with the presence of filth in your blood —
shake these feelings off shake these feelings off
or carve these feelings out 

petals rotting on the floor
spoilt milk and soiled dolls 
carved-out eyes and putrid insides
so unholy, unforgiven
dying fractured, wish for living 
with your parapets of gilded flowers
whose iris bodies reek of death
take to fire, wreck the sheathe
and maybe then you’ll breathe
(and maybe then you’ll breathe.)

cat and mouse and damaged houses
broken homes that bleed forever ; 
our history unwraps itself , repeats itself
cycle of abuse 
cycle of
neglect 
the floorboards creak so weak so weak
the closet seems to speak and weep, 
windows fogged and dust is caked
upon the sills where claws have raked
yes this broken home is where we live
inside and all alone
our contracts are our family
our friends
our poltergeists and
yes we owe our house to poltergeists
whose knives remind us who we’ve been
and where we cannot go