raarming

we are the best at exploiting weakness. the night you took a scalpel to my chest & fed my heart to the stars, you told me i could hate you if i needed to. with an exorcism i tried to cast you out of my body.   i was contorted limbs: the language of tongues trying to find myself in the cosmos of lit kerosene fingertips, & the kinds of habits that only choke me at 3am - when my eyes aren’t yet heavy enough for sleep; my mind tells me to do awful things. between fucking & i-don’t-know-who-i-am- anymore, you are the calories in the mathematical equation scribbled &     scratched out of me. i think of shy moons an