I can’t do this anymore; no soul should be pulled by this chain
of spite that erases me whenever you’re near.
Your icy-ness, spreads me like hot breath on a frozen pane.
Crystallized then gone. Nothing left but a two fingered smear.
Sheared and scraped.
I’m drowning with indifference, nagged by your feeble attempt at sharing for the camera.
Not even a shadow left to cast, you pricked the light from sky.
Leaving a silent ring fallen dead within a broken bell. Molded then cooled.
I want to write till my fingers bleed, till they feel as bad as the rest of me.
A wax amputee.
Just today I saw our field and it’s full of dying grains.
The same one that stood alive, when your blue could still cry.
Though you stand next to me, you’re as far as the eye can see.
I want to write till I can let it go, till I explode in a slow demolition.
I want to write till all of me disperses, her blood on the floor.
Till the red turns to a brownish afterthought, an actor’s distraught wave
from you across the deadened field, will finally yield you a long awaited headline:
An artist’s insides were killed today, and the bidding starts at his new found freedom.
Heartbreak for stardom.
A fair trade, for your chain parade.