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I exist, “I think, therefore I am,”
I am, I am.
My black, sticky being is an
unreachable thought,
a silent cancer, buried
amongst pink, bloodless organs.
Like a child yet to feel
the first sting of the world,
I am either pure or empty,
my nerves exposed
an untouched.
Craving either corruption
or fulfillment.
The numbness circles me constantly
like a wild, violent animal
undecided on how best
to devour his prey.
I stand unmoving, vulnerable,
indifferent.
Feeding on my own life,
mind eating away at my body.
I see the world through
Plath’s bell jar,
Bukowski’s birdcage,
through a devil’s eyes,
through a god’s.
I am not willing to
give up the blind fight,
to sit and decay
around myself.
I am living amongst nothing
for the chance to feel,
savoring pain,
reveling in happiness.
Each rare encounter with emotion,
a sweet, dark taste of life,
a slender brushstroke,
black and defined against
white, faded surroundings.
I exist for the moment
when the clouds are gone,
when I feel the sharpness
of the sky upon me
and the air scratching life
into my flesh.





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