Black Ichor:

I twist myself in knots,

and turn in circles in the pitch black

so wisps can point, and fawn

and conjuring mocking, empty sentiments:

"how pretty"

"looks great"

“what a delight”

They twinkle like smooth glass—

nothing to hold onto—

the words slip past my ears

to the back of my eyes;

and become:

“I hate you.”

My mind eclipses reality,

bombarding the far side 

of this dark firmament 

with hot, Arietid tears.

My body knows this game

and how to keep the score:

Throw a bow round my heart,

and cast the ends out of this domain; 

banish any human desire-

only then could I pray 

that my words reach the light

and love could grow from this salted orb.

Until I get back home…

The ribbon- the gentle jailor 

of my sensitivities- snaps in two, 

and the weak purchase held

over my heart slips loose:

“All Hail the King of Rats,

Nexus of Suffering!”

Pray, Rejoice!

Drink this fatty slurry,

tapped from withering arteries,

and aged in the hollow cavity 

I used to call a chest!

My heart cries out in astonishment:

“Please, love me.”

Bathe in the April shower-

heralding the fool-

acidic from the poison 

bellows of my lungs!

Launder your soul with this voice!

Drink and be merry!

My cup runneth over, 

spilling sweat and black bile

like a sweet perfume to

twisted, rotting noses.

…

But I think the rot 

is coming from the inside;

I wish I loved myself.