My sadness is foul so i keep it in bibles, tucked under veins
til they split the life from me. I am still raw when I write
under a slim light, slapping my diaphragm
and still tugging from a lead-footed night.

I should have been better at holding breeze-block words
between my tongue, the dead blue bird on the sidewalk stares
at the gaps between sentences, it still chortles and mocks me
beneath rotten organs. I do not like the inquest
of you. Friends ask me but my tendons fail
and a notable expression fights its way to the top,
the struggle never stops and I am sorry for the instant decline
of the climate. We toss too much to the background.
I feel it too, a blow to the skull.

I'm not usually a liar, but it's a vehement defence -
I hate the ocean and it's beckoning swish
that can close the lid on chapters
not yet complete.  

At night I unpin it all from the bags blow my lashes,
unleash something there to crack leather freckles.
It sounds large, like a billboard that announces
'tiredness kills, take a break' --
I severed my pulmonary artery
from your digits
and did just that.