the painting

Slit my wrist-

push me off a cliff

and call out

“you’re falling.”

Livings overrated leaves

you numb, and feeling jaded

though the sad fact is

that I would hardly know.

My veins stretch cross the sky now

found draped like lightening

flowing down, down

til-reaching open skull fill-filling up the brain exposed to wind and rain

the impact the trauma and shame.

Low in the sky my torso

it glides gracing the horizons

severed and true. The wounds that

it wears hidden by air

the sunshine it blesses pale skin.

The scars light hides

as the shadow inside keeps watch behind darting eyes.

Body displaced behind currants of shame my life just a script

for the play.

No one will watch it, but

praise what they gain from the scene-not real.

Kill me so softly, brutal and wanting

leave me to die as I’ve lived.

 

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