Scalpel

I cup your left breast with my hand,
lift it, so that I may unseal your skin underneath;
as I venture through folds of secrecy,
I know, you are a small frightened thing–I see
your heart lies cradled, slumbers within
the bloody tapestry, a undeniable sophistication
that justifies all things–a voice
that convinces you
that you will not bleed
even as you cut into yourself
even as you scream
and that this organic fabric of red
is but a velvet dream

get away from that body

with this scalpel I exorcise you
I command you to leave
she is no longer yours
no longer your victim,
no longer your plaything

get away from that body

with this scalpel I undo you
I command you to cease
she is no longer yours
no longer your addiction
no longer a distant dream

she is mine now
she is ours
we are she
we despise you, resent you,
curse you, expel you
we are no longer yours
we are but ours, but mine

I command you to die

for I am my own thing,
I am my own person
I am mine
and mine alone

I am me

Hall of Mirrors

images

someone put a mirror here,
a mirror there; there are
mirrors, mirrors, and
mirrors everywhere;
we see ourselves in those
glassy distortions and
we learn
to thoroughly frighten,
astonish, and incriminate ourselves
with our mere
reflections

War Machine

conscience breaks like
bones break under heel;
its heart drips diesel, sings
of blood and oil; black
as the phantom laughter
that stills the breath of
every soldier
that dares
to meet
its
eye

Don’t Fight the System

You heart recognizes it before your mind does. Over

the years it has decoded the language of your soul, deconstructed

the patterns of your behaviour and systemized your

various reactions and thoughts. In order to ensure survival,

it strategizes your emotions and efficiently segregates

your truest feelings so you react appropriately to

things that it considers too good to be true or

things that will certainly do you more harm than good.

.

Its calculations are nearly always exact, immutable

and indispensible and just as your heart masters

the mechanics of your internal chaos, you

indulge yourself in its loyal service and you feel safe

wrapped in this dependence, this self-deception. With

continuous practice, your faithful servant tackles the difficult

maths of life, what you call, bad shit that always

happen to good people.

.

Like any intellectual being, that little piece of beating

flesh inside of your chest gradually comes

to its own wistful conclusion: to simplify

the equations and formulas and to reduce the

constant complication of its computation—it begins to

defragment its hard-drive, erasing the unnecessary files,

memories of joy, of love and of hope. Those things

are not needed. What good have they done so far?

According to its calculation, humans need only

one thing to survive, and that is thing is fear.

.

So it teaches you to be afraid,

To live in fear, to become fear itself.

Only then, can you be fully and truly

protected from pain, from unfulfilled wishes,

from one job to the next, from one lover to another,

from the shards of your broken relationships,

from the dawnless sleeps, the nightmares that

do not end, the devil that is life.

 

Slow steps. Don’t run away.

.

The night unfolds like the wings of a black swan

The feathers cascade down the side of its body, like a velvet curtain

The pale moonlight pours down like acid.

The weary bird lowers it head, oblivious,

To beauty.

.

.

By Kim T.

(Inspired to write really short poems these days…)