Shot in the soul by a pointed word
the arrows of your curvatures
each little letter alphabetical icicles melt me freeze me in place freeze me in time in a time when that word was meant for me and I
see my blood and yours all tangled up in liquid knots
and solid, coagulated, dead, dried, useless, old, dead nots.
My tears
and body just as wet as the day we met
The humidity of humanity.
The urge to breathe.
To fight the suffocation and just keep pushing keep pumping keep bleeding on the inside.
The effects of gaseous reason cannot be seen. Cannot be smelled, felt, tasted. Only the dead benefit from reason.
And it is rage. It is sadness. And they are the same.
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