omnia lundus sunt;

I am heir to the throne of a suicide king.

Close the door, they’ll come in through the window.
You were trained to trust,
to iron out the wrinkles forming around cigarette sipping lips-
folds and creases designed to remind you of the inevitability
of growing old in the same shape as your mother.

July; I spit on mosquito bites to cull the itch.
Come August, I ‘ll grow to like the heat,
Freedom from the burning inside.
My mouth is a fucking parasite-
My body is my autoerotic salvation.

I take my sadness down to the river,
Am still left with the river-
I take my pain and throw it away,
Am still left with my hands.

It’s not always easy deciphering what God is trying to tell me;
But it’s not something I have to figure out alone.
Please don’t say such nice things-
I cry too easily.