whiny poetry

something ill, kid that makes me feel dead
couldn't be happier about it
a deadly feeling warms my cold body
I want him to hurt me, my cold death
I want him burnt into me
scars going mad each passing day
one, two, three and more deep cuts inside

I will know for sure in a few days

if      my life is
or not            in danger

it may seem too far-fetched
but it doesn't sound too bad

once you      consider
the state of          my condition

politics aside, yesterday I slept quite well

...yet after dusk

she is but a cold pillow
       a crucial part of my healing
                    
a cleverly embodied soul

Ignoring all scratches
             scars and
             open wounds
and          the 5 years prior to this conversation
                
it becomes evident I am
                   living my best life
                
for I can't afford another

To feel desired
I began experimenting

with nudity

opening all my windows
for them to come in
letting life

feed off me