This Isn’t Going To End Well…

He gathers dust.
He feels every speck of dirt gather on his dry skin.
I would turn to gather an image,
But I can’t take that risk.
I have autopsied myself again and again,
All for his benefit,
And lost myself in the process.
Each time I awoke,
There he was;
Blade in hand and eyes covered.
This yearning I have to be understood;

still;

present;

visible.
As we drift away from the rotten core of me.
The knowledge of the impending arrival of this death locomotive.
You’ve become another in a long list;
A never-ending field of atrocities.
These days seem to offer too many options.
When all I want is to be still.

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