barbed-wire hands
with corroded fingertips
incise my chest,
rupturing flesh and scraping bone
intruding my rib-cage;
wrapping lurid palms
around my flaccid heart
and tugging at the strings,
disconnecting the wires,
until all
i
feel
is
apa
thy
YOU ARE READING
cognition
Poetrythese aren’t poetry; these are products of my thought-inebriated 3a.m. mind cesusjhrist © 2015