I am getting better at flaring myself up like a flame.
I am getting better at locating the pain, some parts mine and others not- and commanding it back to the wind with a sullen, knowing stare. Being more careful about where I leave my hair. Commanding the wind with better boundaries, a rage, a dare. Curtailing invisible enemies. Cutting the cord.
I am getting better at resurrecting myself each day and tidying away my pain, lending it to the far-reaching majesty of the Sun.
I am getting better at discerning the difference between holy places and dark places:
The cathedral between my thighs, the locked garden of my heart, overgrown but tended to, wild, but pure.
The drunken cavern he visits at night, the cold annotates of his tone, the void, the 2 dimensional marriage to the material.
I am getting better at flaring myself up like a flame.
I am not getting better at finding empathy for the morbidly obedient
I am bored of the morbidly obedient
Dreadfully, fucking, bored
Whore myself out to who? And idolize what? And break whose heart? Pick which equally sick polarization? And tell what lies and in what order?
Heres my heart, hold it. It's big and it’s heavy. Tread lightly on my inner cartography, my alien geography. You are probably but a temporary inhabitant. We all are.