I haven’t loved myself
Not one square inch of my skin have i treated with kindness –
Spared it from mind’s eye grafting lines into it
Criss-crossing this way and that till they meet in a pulsing empty chamber
Eating into itself, each pump swallowing lies whole.
Hell’s flames scorch slowly – ice the wounds with disturbed sleep.
The gates to hell they’re folded neatly under my eyelids.
Gently, they shake as they arch their backs curling upwards from the soft pillows
It’s warm like slumber here, the line between the world and mine isn’t the distance of here and there.
The slow breakdown point that laps like breaths.
Moving backwards and then dangerously close again, closing in sometimes and relenting just a little. Good days. Bad days. Count them with falling darkness.
Slipping into the haze. It scares the most before the surrender.
I can still scream just before the nightly death of consciousness but all i’m screaming for is the sleep that won’t visit
The warm gates of hell, taunting.