Slivers, splinters, falling meaning.
Catch it, spinning out to the stars.
Bleeding rags dressed in fine red patches.
Shredded hands, hopes, hearts, drip desire.
I can’t hold on, hold out, hold a good thought,
flailing agonized neurons,
unable to provide sustenance
bind the wound.
Clasp so tight and tenderly
as blood scores your fingers.
Touch my raw eroding senses
with gentle rain, easing,
obscuring the view.
I would curl up into destiny,
adore my lacerations
as fantasies of false skins.
Sliding, holding fast to sharp edges,
I would fall immortally lost through space,
I would lock my consciousness in pasteboard boxes,
too squeezed for mortal breath.
The words whirl around, whirl around, whirl
like scattered bits of paper tears.
I would hide in the deepest cage and
keep life from slowly seeping through.
But the hunger calls.
It growls and jumps in fits to battle.