bouquet

i didn't come here

looking for friends... or for

anything at all.

i was born here, before you bled.

before your first poem was written in red.

i've been peeling back the layers

of who i am

longer than you been alive,

and now i'm hiding

inside the artery of my own existence.

this place called allpoetry,

it sickens me.

like heaven inside of hell

with no one to tell

how much

i despise the lies

of a crippling imagination.

i can write a poem

and then fuck off,

but you need something

more... donchya?

i can see it in the way you write.

i see it without shoulder blades,

falling apart

the way fish does

when cooked in a skillet.

we are both here for different reasons.

i aim to kill

all the cogs in the wheel.

no longer rotate

no longer mate

no longer hate

myself for writing stupid words

on a glowing screen.

i'm here for the girls who fall in love

with poetical danger.

i'm here for love and romantic suicide,

and these poems i write

attract the quickening kiss of august,

but i don't possess the power

to release the air

from this bouquet of burning balloons.