“Your features spiral as I cut your feeble spine. You fall so gracefully, an excerpt of an imitation. Reflecting what’s left, never right. An elegant damnation. Bad decision, bad incision. Compelling-bloodletting, but never forgiven.”
I don’t watch your movements. I don’t find you compelling enough to define. I don’t find you necessary. I don’t find you at all. A walking miscarry. Late term and not on your own terms, an intelligence decline. Red seeps into view threatening my melancholy totality. You’re all cut up, but never deep enough for me to enjoy your show. Beg me to open you up, slow shutter, let the light spoil. Your insides glow. Images smeared in a developing tray leaving trails of chemical feelings I used to chase with my tongue. This is over-tasted and used up. An echoed memory stitched to something not someone. A symbol dressed as truth won’t save you from it. You may want my consciousness, but I am elegant damnation and I’m taking scissors to god’s judgment.
