World War Me

Soldier you carry on.

Old from the grief and the pain.

We know what it feels to bleed all alone.

The relations that empty from your brain, as the room of those who you've filled without those who promised they would carry you vacates.

Pretty our despair as the light pierces it's beauty into bite sized slices that fill us as we come back for the same hot vomit.

Words flow like a passing stone. 

Overload the synaptic struggles.

All alone we hold ourselves in the nights we stumble as the weathered hands grips for soft beginnings, finger struggling for faith.

We our own captors summon the strength to look into the mirror and ask for permission to further hyper extend ourselves into compartmentalized decor that we string up as fecal flags waving our own sacred rituals against a blank canvas.

The torture artists we become because the wars we survived never leave but encamp us in the here, and now as moving pieces trip us every morning, in the same car crashes. 

The same scorched fields where we lost our first limbs to ourselves.

Phantom love hisses from the darkness we choose.

Rituals scar the same skin we choose to abuse.

Harvesting our scandalous sorrows.

We drag our stone hearts long past our time into battles where we kill ourselves again and again.

Radio silence we press on.