just a leaf on the street trembling,
but i undo myself.
i most likely should conjure this in third person
to make it seem less disturbing, but,
i am bloodletting you know
there is some blurry psychosis in which i feel
my poetic emptiness can wait.
the very nothing within
the sudden tilt of all that i need
drips; i don't really talk anymore.
there should not be space here; or …. .. .
if there is,
i cannot comprehend how
infinite it is and
if it has
life lives on
as the last visage of a darling, which has become
imperative to the daily dose of lingering.
gone again. i remove more of myself.
the woman that i remember
[maybe you do too] was stoic in her faith
in unseen nouns, in moments that tortured, inconsequence.
i impaled ruminations and lost words. ..
sigh, i am aware that now i skulk around some hearts;
[sigh with more emphasis]
this world becomes
a stone holding down a curling photograph; longing for wild wind..
but if you say things
like shot up beauty
and tie my skin to your wire fence, please
you are unwanted.
that i used to know how to press myself
into your eyes and make you speak of silent films.
yesterday, i saw a face.
tomorrow, i shall shove two fingers deep into the sky
and blow kisses at all the ways i am never
in your head.
i promise you that i am not. real.
this is not. truth.
but you said otherwise.
and there is night to watch.
so stop wasting me.
and no you are not forgiven.
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