Thin hairline fractures, that lay submerged in anger;
long enough that they swelled into gaping holes.
To go over them, would be
like navigating the latitude,
and the longitute
and the gravity
and the declination of something
already dead.
Our past lay dissected on an autopsy table.
The rib cage of what was exposed for what it really was.
Empty.
A shell of brilliant pretense.
Cause of death;
Starvation.
So clinical, and so opaque.
Obscure, and dark. And now, now that I
have stopped feeling, and now that my eyes have
become a crimson shade of apathetic,
you want to know why.
Only now.
Indifference is free. I will drown you in it,
if you insist on standing with your hands open,
in front of me,
outstretched,
in denial;
that you created this.
You threw the first punch.
Suck it up baby.
Beasts of Articulation 