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My chest laid bare
on the muddy soil—
my ribs, flowered open.
Despair, my canvas—
picked apart by scavenging savages.
Condemned to the deep,
my heart lay.
You're an idol
of my making.
And yet, unworthy
of worship.
I committed to you,
my heart and soul—
in hopes for affection.
I put you
on a pedestal—
burying you in a sea of incense,
giving you mindless desire.
What have I received
in return?
I have managed to walk
through the puddles
of diswant.
I have amassed—
great hatred of the known.
There is no mud on my heels.
I have been known.
Are you real?

Were you real?

You were the only bud

that flowered in my garden

of misery.

I longed for the season that

brought you into bloom.

My sweet perfection—

my agonizing suffering.

Why have you forsaken me?

Don’t you understand

I hurt you

so you could hurt me back?

Now I am alone again—

my life in perpetual limbo.

I find myself

grazing the edge of life

for a ****** that may never arrive.

I jump from bus to bus

seeking an empty seat,

where I sit and reminisce your absence,

from my heart in absentia.

Who will gape the spout in my aorta?

Who will stop the senseless bleeding?

Winter came—and your petals fell.

I weep and weep, watering a plant

that is long gone.

I miss what I never had.

I miss what I could have had.

Goodnight my sweet.

— The End —