Snapped Spine

I killed myself because of the scissored lips that sliced on me and the crippled mass rotting inside of me. When I gave up on those things, that those lips would be splitting plums and the cripple an Olympist, I gave up on everything.

When I blinked and realized the erotic strangle hold that he had on sexism, I gave up. Because of the writhing climax he attains by using his mother as the lightning rod that grounds him. Because he'd rather have that climax than me.

The sluicing eyes look like instinct, they cut away so deftly. There's no twinkle. There's no recognition. They will cleave a channel through you under the guise of a joke. I will let them and laugh. Everyone needs to laugh.

There is a corpse in this room, floating sideways. Tied by the ankle to cement blocks. X-ed eyes and yarn for hair. It's as if he stood up one morning, one perfectly normal morning, blueberries ripe on the bush, but this body stayed weighted behind. Purple stains swelling around these turgid veins.

Veins. That web through. Because of the sluicing, slicing, splitting purple in the plums.

And every open hand clenches into a fist, the taut bonnet of a venomous snake.