anna kiss





Anatomy of a Self-Loather


The brain cut in two,

welded to a bisected heart

and they beat

   in segments of non-light and non-motion

that which is not happening


never forgive oneself

for the days when the whole bottle was not thrown down

or the days before when the gun stayed nestled carefully in its case,

glistening with misguided intentions

or the misinterpretation of that which I am

    as in direct opposition to that which they claim to be.

The faces of perfection remain

forever neatly pressed

in the covers of magazines

layered in rows on the coffee table

or in fanned displays

(because control can only be maintained over the inanimate),

and the other demons

that haunt this cycle of brain/heart motions,

are merely its own twin in perfect synchronicity

staring out from the mirror,

another collection of pills in hand.









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