Vultures And Other Vulnerabilities.

Hurt or Heal.

The glint in her eyes were open skies with
exit wounds slicing through them.

She gave me options, ones I never knew that I had.

End the game, silence the pain
attempt happy one last time.
destinations aren't always worthy of the distance
you travel, the
trudging forward in a wasteland with nothing
else to do
then pour stinging saltwater tears
into gunshot punctures .
Sometimes lonely is the better way, the easiest road.

Here, depression is simply agony with
surgical incisions beaconed through the
fragile skin, and every word pronounced from your
lips are the small warning signs of fragmentation.
White asterisk marks laced with lacked perfection
looking like eyes squeezed tight in fear.

The dark in my soul, Is a night sky catharsis with entrance
wounds sketched in-between them.
A hollowness, swollen, bursting at the core;
Where gentle, tender loving light runs eagerly
away from my pleading hands.
Intensify the blood stains from the art work,
from paintings on my flesh, echoed through empty
halls screeching from beginning, I am waiting to end
end end
end.

Once-
my therapist asked me if I found solace, sinister
escape through wounds, formed by sharp cutting edges;
or if I preferred the blades of self-
inflicted verbs, damaging as
limbs pulling, scratching and seething
at every single aspect of me.

I said – No, I am far too weak for that.
Weakness she told me
is the stitches in the mind leading towards
those acts.
She couldn't hear my silent screams, the slotted scenes
the voices telling her how I'd lied.

You know you're hurting when you lie out of fear, even to the thing
that's trying to save you.

I came face to face with faceless images. Of frustration
carved relentlessly into tempests and
hollowed hives.
From hands that once offered to hold you.
There is simply two choices now:

Hurt or Heal.

I wish I wasn't considering them both.