If I could see inside myself, what desperate terrain. Bits and pieces of smashed bone and teeth, dried blood splattered against a shriveled background. Empty….dust. Scratch it,
scratch and you’ll see. It is the rack. Muscles tearing under it’s pull. See it, see it. It is not so deep. The blood still oozes like a thick black paste. Open it. It is dark. It’s darkness could fill the world.
A world has been destroyed inside of me. A world is being destroyed inside of me.
It is a massacre, it is an inquisition. It continues. Flames burn skin and hair, thumbscrews crush fingers and blood splatters. Every day, every night. Unspeakable crimes. My personal genocide. Listen, you can hear it. Listen, you can smell it. It is death. It rips at me. It tears at me. My insides are left shredded. My sores never heal.
Who is this head hanging on my wall? Ripped from it’s body. Hair matted with excrements of torture. It’s mouth gaping and twisted. It’s eyes so resigned to the inevitable pain, the inevitable butchery. I know him. I know him. He is my lover. We dance each night with splintered bones. Each footprint of blood shows our steps. Off, off into dreams, into nightmares that rob us of sleep that rob us of rest. We are married to it.