#korazon

My heart’s gone slack in this flesh covered cage called ‘my chest’ where the paleness of bones feels lighter than light itself. It’s a cold feeling that numbs my body right down to my toes like I’ve walked all day long in 2 feet of snow, barefoot as I go on and on. I stack books but never read them. I no longer care to escape from the end. Eventually, it’ll all catch up to me and the words and the worlds will yield as they bend to my will. You see my mind has become a place, filled with the monsters that lurk in real life as I curl up in my bed. I haven’t had time to rest in weeks since I gathered all of this strife.

He says I’m an occultist. I conjure the ghosts that moan in his attic within walls and boxes. He tells me I’m a pitch-black starless night sky and my soul’s been consumed by the lust in his life. Well, if I’m a witch without a cat or a broom to fly away on why are you so familiar with the ways of my hips and my waist. Why do your eyes wander, to my body and never my face? So, I guess you’re a charmer at least that’s what I’ve heard as I walk into lobbies and run out of hospitals. There’s a baby somewhere crying out that man’s name but it isn’t mine, it’s yours. 

I wish I had magic to burn or a spell I could learn to erase all the hysteria in my mind but an illusion won’t do what my memory reminds. I’ve got weight pressed against the back of my spine and it’s you that hovers around like a dark cloud. It’s him again as his voice says my name aloud. I’m not some kind of feat that you can play your tricks on. All at once I feel sick as you talk about thongs. Thongs that are pink and thongs that are blue. Strings that hold places up like a bound whore at least she gets paid and consents to “what for” while an hour of time feels like forever to me. 

Tell me to go. I plead in my brain. I pray to all the gods. Maybe if I act deranged. Will you tell me to leave? Permit me to escape? I’m asking for answers but you lock me away. Here in this dark cell of dismembered hell. You can keep what you stole from me. You can have what you wanted but allow me to leave. All the parts have been left all over the floor and under the sink. You can keep me. You can keep me but let me break free. Get out of my system! I’m dead can’t you tell? You’re just fucking a doll that you thought you knew well and I’m screaming inside. I’m tearing up every page that used to define my loathing and rage. You can leave. You can go. If you can find the key but the door’s always locked and I never flee....I freeze. 

Why do we call it a battle?

When we inflict this pain

on ourselves

starving it out like a fever

of cold fingers

wrapped around

bruised thighs

to measure

whatever the amount

of bones that cry

why?

why?

why are you so?

ignited by

a fire raging in my blood.

the war of nerves

always disordered...

so, why do we call it a fight?

when it’s not.

because strength has to come

from the vacancies

that leave us hungry