I live for an eternity,

Eclipsed by a morbid twisting of trees;

The coldness of metal bars

Shedding off its morning dew.


The hardness of my wrist

Calms the mark between my brows.

My draping sleeves brush my cheeks

And feed itself a soft-breathed sigh.


In solitude:

Elsewhere I do not live as myself,

But as the damned shard of a mirror

In which I cannot see my reflection.


Let the glass cut these sore hands,

And society shall drink my blood as wine;

Thirsting for the day it can destroy me,

Intoxicating itself in the splendor of tragedy.