p o e m s .

october.

pins dig into my back
i ask for it to stop
they soon turn into switchblades
to knives.
knives carve at me like a pumpkin
leaving me hollow and dead
chunks of me have been scooped out
and neatly put into a bowl
to be made into a pie
for whatever psycho thinks fit.
a candle is placed neatly inside of me
set alight by a cheap lighter she found on the parks bench
probably left by an avid smoker.
i can feel myself melting away
the fire burns on my hollow figure
holes start to puncture my poor skin.
soon i become a mask of the man i was
a melted cocoon of my worthlessness
and my thoughts
to be forgotten when november arrives