Interlude: I’m Not Angry Anymore

I’d melt my disgust if I could,
and pour it into their hands.
Maybe then they’d find
another train-wreck back home,
so I don’t crave
the way they suffocate themselves
in buckets
of low self-esteem.

[It’s not my fault
that I can’t hurt like them.]

Prove That You’re Still Human

i.
There’s a whisper
puncturing the emptiness
of ellipses and parenthesis,
where lips stopped imprinting
tender cyberspace solar-systems;
shattering the window
to an exposed pelvis.

ii.
It’s that moment of intensity
when you step on a sliver
of stealthily-placed glass,
that chunk of pain designed
to prove that you’re still human…
Because people want record
that white blood cells
really do exist,
even when you’re trying to dazzle them
with tales of misery business.