Today
upon my fingertips
I bred the cut from which I wept;
blood trails on crime scenes
screaming nerves
teeming memories on that I slept.

A brief memory flashed
with the wind on the panes
of light and day, a lazy haze
of pencils and graphite
sharpened against paper
snapped and uneven in a hurried daze.

From that I create
the pencil and paper
from them both I bleed—
one with sick intention,
unconventionally organic
and the other a slip of a hand with clumsy speed.

There comes a blessing in pleading
and a futile hope in praying
on my hands and heels,
I will bow and I will beg—
this sick nostalgia
squirms in my chest like eels.

Against the soap
I wiped my wound;
fresh and sobbing
in the light of the moon.

A scream
is best to how I can describe
the rage of nerves
in which I inscribe
thousands of scars
pale white and rising
like peaks on a mountain—
and no one’s realizing.

Goodnight.
The wind is loud behind the glass.
A screaming akin
to what I’ll get, at last,

In sleep and in rest
and in uttered pleads
because I, even today
lie on my hands and knees:

take away this nostalgia.
i’m months upon months clean.
take away this longing,
and do not let me be seen.