to make me a nothing, so I could feel no more,
least her acid tongue, her stinging slaps,
least his hand confidential upon my thigh.
my knife my earnest artistry.
Your animal shrieks give me no joy.
My hands will never be clean again,
they gleam crimson truths through
When you are Death, how can you die?
You are condemned to fretful living.
The consumption of life after life
brings no color to your skin.
I'm opaque as the night,
even as my knife a brilliant color brings
to your pallid cheeks.
Do not struggle.
I want to get this over with.
In my youth, if such a term
could be applied to weak misery,
I waited for the sun
to release me from my unkempt prison
into the playground of other children.
(I never learned to smile myself.)
Now I seek to stare out the sun
so it can thrust me into solitary darkness.
So I may lie wooden, on soft sheets,
a stage for all my ghosts,
and as they flit across my eyes,
give up being.