I feel the rip–
all raw edges and ragged bits
of impossibility,
tucked somewhere inside
my gut.
The pain should be enough
to keep me
from the knife,
but the cut is an addiction
all its own.
Soon I will be ribbons;
just fluttering red strips
of my soul
in the wind.
Still,
fate isn’t easily resisted,
and I fly
towards my own destruction
aware.
3-19-20
A slow drip
at first,
and the groan
of bending
steel.
The drip becomes
a stream,
and the stream becomes
a river,
then the sound of tearing
metal
slices through me.
A crash,
and a torrent
of the washed up
dreams
and the shattered
stained-glass
walls
of my own broken
psyche
pour out
onto the street.
They slide into the gutter
and slip down
below,
with all the other
refuse.
4-25-18
Shattered Mindspace 