she threw me shards of glass,
gave me perfect cuts – a cup of tea; whispering,
you’re not good enough.
i’m one of those who drew you y’know.
hell yeah, i draw so damn well, bitch!
draw out my veins, thread by thread,
sew a dress to cover your naked body.
draw up my drowning psyche from your
draw you a picture of a man crushed by a sandstorm –
teach you brownian motion the hard way [with art]
through his body;
close it up by turning yours to ashes,
or something inside of you,
groping like you are.
some girl’s hand’s reaching out to me
from a closed cupboard.
it’s not dark, but i don’t see her; i just feel soft fingers
doodle invisible marks on my chest, massage me slowly as if trying to say,
“take it easy…easy…”
not to binge live. but tell me,
is there any other way round a bridge asides the one parallel
to your trembling feet? i guess not.
i’m one who understands this world’s
binary system – if it ain’t one,