Inside

Blunt chisels peck at the hard edges of skin. Penis and breast debate the rewards of feeling strangers so far inside. Smoldering wicks consuming the candle. Vague apparitions of touch carelessly shape the blood to match the grin. In long strands of paper dolls that can barely hang onto each other the path is marked. In stitches of skin trying hard not to fall apart.

A suicidal attempt at taming the things insides of us we thought were happiness.


Just liars in our heads. The punch of the pillow. As it hits your heads. No one left to blame.

Imagining heaven in trademarks of when.