Vultures And Other Vulnerabilities.

Desperate Ties.

I'll hand you a scalpel.

Use it as you wish.

Cut into my skull, drill till it hurts:
Show me that pain still exists.
Make a doll out of me
Made from every single defect,
Break me; make me; stand on my wings.
Ask me than, to bear neglect.

My father's cologne smells oddly like regret now,
but I can't tell if it's his, or mine.
So please: I will hand you a scalpel,
Slit and slice, pierce and bruise
Purge me, from everyone's fingertips
every disdain lasting far too long,
Swipe the milky flesh from your fingers...
Make me believe I'm strong.

If I could than hand you...
Some web, fabric or a string or two,
try sew me, like a tapestry. Make me feel
brand new.
Incomplete puzzle piece,
Matches compelled to burn out.
These desperate ties-

My own distress teases me like a lover
gone too soon.

This is
A mosaic of shattered remnants,
of men who handle pain with whiskey in their palms,
smoke rings crowning them on a needle bed,
swearing but-
I might look quite
swell with the web tied into a bow,
Sitting upon my mangled head.
I will tell you then that I am fine.
Ignore the swollen nerves bursting,
cyanide blood vessels erupting inside of me.

The words are falling heavy from my mouth,
swollen -
infected.

If I vanished I wouldn't leave a mess:
Just a black hole you could export agony into.
I carry depravity on my shoulders like
I was born to walk twenty million miles with it,
This world is a set of goals that I am too late to start achieving.
Instead...

There's that cupboard under my book shelf,
carpeted abyss stored away where I sit
alone
fragmented pieces of bone
smiling smiles of sinister solitude
whispering the word "fuck."
Over and over,
imploding like they taught me too.

Wondering how much karma emits from
lies borne like a foreign
wound bearing through bleeding skin:

I faked a smile every day
and you thought that it was real.

So come on I'll hand you the scalpel,
Scratch and slice and make me feel.