Sunday, 13 June 2010
My body is a crime scene. my body is your crime scene. My body hides vital evidence that no one cares to collect. My body is a packet of clues nobody wants to read. It’s a bad, cheap novel. It’s cracked pages and yellowed lettering. My body is a forest fire. My body is gasoline and smoke. My body is the burning cigarette tossed out of a car. It runs at a thousand feet per second. My body is the tossed corpse, wrists tied behind back, dislocated shoulders and skid marks on skin. I am the skin. I am the dead. I am the road. I am the rope used to subdue me. My body is a glowing trajectory, at night, a golden bow, before I crash against the highway. Before you snuff me out with your boot, my body is a match. It sets fire. My body is a murder case written in cigarette burns. My body is treasure chest of guilt and shame. My body is a present to you, wrapped in ribbons of blood and a huge bow on top. My body is a ticking bomb. I’m tired of the itch. I’m about to explode. Tick. Tock. My body is a song. It’s a scream. That tells you it’s all over. I can’t handle the itch, it’s coming. I want to I want to. There are no words. They are too big for my mouth. Mouth made to suck you off. They are rocks weighing me down in the river. In the sea. My body is used up. I don’t know if you ever loved me, maybe in your way you did because god works in mysterious ways. I’m sick of this. I’m broken. They broke me. You broke me. I think I take too many drugs and I think it’s because they broke me. He put me in his mouth and his jaw crushed me like a cherry. Juice ran down his chin. I don’t remember who I am this is why i try to forget and never try to remember. When I was in elementary school, my teacher, she told me I was good with words. I believed her. Now I have nails under my tongue. I have razors under my veins. I cut everyone up.