I’m not a broken soul, just a wounded one.
Bruises always looked better on my legs anyway.
Purple-black hugging thighs, whispering greatness,
but screaming undone.
I’ll dance my way to wherever-after with a limp,
an entertaining number with a gatling gun.
I’m going faster than I thought I would, white doves turn filthy quick.
Dripping, stinking oil slicks.
Water cascades upwards here, carving counterclockwise.
It’s draining now, omitting. Liquid hope falls through my hands.
Here one day gone the next. Time slips.
Tick. Tick.
Massive, rooted trees have grown here for years. Cortex expands.
Feral words dripping hot blood and drying fast. Branches wither.
I curl up, eyes shut, killed darling.
I was never really here.