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it seems I have effectively forgotten how to adequately write a poem
be it about a bone I had the pleasure  to break it myself,
a heart that has been torn and ripped apart
or even the profane way I say my prayers,
which some may say it’s all about the same thing anyway.
and so frequently I have been finding myself looking you right in the eyes
all blood and sweat, saliva and semen,
blasphemous eyelids that refuse to shut:
how many have you killed with the simplest eyelash flutter?
there’s a graveyard where my eyes used to be
and covered on each other’s rawness
I so often wait for the next time someone will destroy me:
I so anxiously wait like nothing is sacred, like it’s all about dirt
and I think you have been teaching me that
there’s a certain way in which heaven is allowed,
in which heaven is putrid,
that heaven won’t heal us and has a metallic taste.
yet heaven is still heaven and for you and me
it’s so easy to get there and then
fall down to earth right after, bloodied-nosed
breaking and ripping each and every single one of our nails
digging our way through to the warmth of hell.

I saw hell again that night
the hell of the self, the hell
I carry within and there's
no memory of being
with you that could've save me,
because my memories
follow the same crimson-coloured
river and purpose I do:
it drowns and disrupts me only.