There’s no cigarette or masochistic bromide that can deflect the present’s grotesque poison, the festered spite and bitter that rots my long-cherished proclivity towards tenderness.
My fragmented rectitude is shrapnel in the hands of anyone blind enough to come close. My tongue is out to kill and I’m brandishing knives with demonic finesse,
and there’s no valor or beacon of righteousness to disarm me.
I’m making offers on the altar of solipsistic nihilism with a velocity that would have terrified my conscience before the passionless intoxicant infiltrated every last capillary.
Mental hemisphere frozen in full solar eclipse.
Glacial indifference as frostbite discolors my skin and soul and closes in on my heart.
I’m beating these impotent fists against the last wall standing, begging whatever dismantled trace still breathes to succumb to anything