inside my chest
there is a nuclear reactor.
so don’t forget,
you are made of water.
your torn pink flesh
cannot mask what you are,
cannot save you from
my burning core.
inside my chest
there is a dying star.
but I am still alive
and I can still destroy you.
you are not you anymore.
not a special strawberry
growing from a crack in the patio.
you are a shit inside a septic tank.
inside my chest
there is a great black hole
that only I have the key to.
you do not have it now.
I peer at all the constituent parts
and touch them pore by pore
feeling for which are more
pleasing to the eye and the mind
I wonder why it
is so unacceptable to be imperfect
in mood or mind or
visual appeal
I wonder what it is like to
be free from your own jagged scrutiny
my face is so covered with labels
I try to peel them off
but they leave trails of glue and whiteness behind
I wonder
is it more of a crime against
my fellow man
to let go or cling on?
and why is it
that no love given ever seems enough?
shapes hang over the questions
that have no answers
and so I dream of what it would be like
to be the honest accurate whole
garland of pearl 