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a skeleton key, badly tuned

pain curves tenderly in an
outrageously outward-moving
arc, bowed like those
old bridges I used to build
out of rotting bird cages
and agonizing light.
I shouldn't do this
and whether the delicate
forsaken balance I dimly
recall extending (tho tenuous)
twixt terrible uncertainty
and the last shred of tawdry
torn tinsel I pretend lives
within my newly withered
chest (where my dignity once
rested or nested),
like raw humiliating certainty
which circles those fateful,
hatefully awkward wagons
(like a thickly rotten ring of
vague moist maggots
burrowing into what's left
of some hideous corpse's
deadly decaying grin)
I shouldn't do this -
I shouldn't trace the strange
haunted history of our failures
along the abandoned edges
of me, until what points
of lingering light ive got left
collapse sullenly into one
fitful, faithless star.
or an ugly tarnished noose,
or a fresh bruise -
but these are all just
endlessly unlovely
approximations of a girl.
I'm too tired.
too deathly cold and
aching all over, like my
fevered body burns in
an idle effigy so murderously
slow and sharp,
(like the
rusted tin edges of a
useless sheriff's star)
I'm too tired to
approximate, to have faith
or dig deep - much too
tired to even try and sublimate
this agony of misapprehensions
into something more worth
my lover's precious,
dim-dark time - more than
this lately vapid vivisection...
nothing more trite than
an alien autopsy performed
on the misshapen,
mangled mess you left
of my (frankly) cursed self.
lately all my anguish
can't sate you, and even
murdering me bores the
fuck out of you -
so let's take a break
from breaking me.
hopefully in the pregnant
pause buried in between
your life and my obsession,
I might finally get some rest.

1 Nov 18

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