More Like a Small Anthology Than Anything, Really

My wrist, formless, shifting and breaking like a cloud;
You grab hold, tightly--too tightly,
And I vaporize before your eyes.

 

Magenta breeze bleeds out across the dusky sky.
I roll down hot asphalt, wheels affixed to my soles.
They spin endlessly, slaves to my wanderlust.

 

I gave you my neck, so I could wear your bruises like amethyst and rubies-
So many beautiful, glistening, bleeding rubies;
The sharp tang of metal on your tongue... it's for real, isn't it?

 

The skin of birch comes apart under my fingers, I'm-I'm--
Overflowing, my threads coming apart at the seams, alone and far from home.
Oceans wet my cheeks and rivers of liquid gold scald my thighs.

 

Tear off the skin of my breast and you'll likely find
Nothing important--just cracked ivory bars and a bare cell.
True, it fled when the ground started to shake.

 

When the endless acoustics of your screams threatened to break me,
To hold me down and take me--take me to madness:
I ran. And it didn't follow me out there.

 

He liked to play with worms; they were ugly things,
Writhing, wretched, wicked things.
Reaching for everything and holding nothing--me.

 

The dark, the beautiful blackout dark your cries sent me to.
Raven's coat on Halloween--couldn't ever hope to be as deep
As that utter nothingness I yearn for.

 

Pink capsules--Capulet, Juliet, light of my life and--
Little pills I choke down by the dozen.
Rosy little bullets in my--ruined--head.

 

Alone with the neighborhood, the peeling paint
Of old two-story antique homes falls
In little showers around me, creeping through muddy lawns at midnight.

 

Fog, oh, unsavory savior; mysterious Mr. Mundane;
I await the day that I'll step with conviction into you,
And never again return the same.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
My country
Our world

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