January 19, 2012
Liberation is the latch in your viscera
where freedom bleeds out,
crevice crawling and blue pooling
under flesh and skin and hair and lips.
It is an eruption of angry red
of vessels broken behind your
hollowed eyes, your white nails.
It's a blood rush to the soul
to swim in, to drown
Liberation is a match,
brought to the cotton in your lungs;
a breath of smoke and burnt carbon.
It's the black embedded, glass eyes
breaking under the heat of the burn.
Afraid that if you part those gray lips,
there's no going back.
Not to the dead,