the sanctuary of my melancholy
resides within an unidentified area of my consciousness–
parting untrodden oceans like the shattering
of a hollow skull.
the glistened fruit of joy rots in my hands
like decaying sinew.
i make a fount of my tears
vexed and bitterly poisonous
anatomic incendiaries, deliquescing.
there’s an acerbic taste in my mouth that i cannot
rid myself of.
it tastes of raw, excoriated despair:
a woe distaste of anguish
bleeding flesh and pungent coppery scents.
i am filled with acrimonious poems
vindictive poetry, virulent literature
and my blood runs hot with furious grief
desolated
like the parchedness of an arid desert.
inside my torment lies a pain:
the unrelenting scratching of distress
mounting a pile of hemorrhaging afflictions.
the devastating cadence of a heartbreak
like the pulse of someone
left behind by the one they love.
my skin is lacerated with self-inflictions
and i still stare at the bedroom door
(our bedroom door)
awaiting your return
for evermore.
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