I will turn you

You will turn into a ball of mud
if you do not let me do what I’m supposed to
I want to speak in tongues
until I am Death upon your skin
And you can’t help but feel disdain
when you remember
at someone else’s expense, with extra horror,
how I cut out the sadness from your wrinkles
and sneered
while you ceased trying to remain yourself

Careful begging, dipped in your own shame
smelling of old blood
leaks out of your ears
while I watch like a rogue spy, darkened

I will turn you into something useless
If you do not dry into stone first
It’s too late anyway
You have turned your tongue too far
to ever close your mouth again
Upon your skin I complain
and sharpen knives, rusty from bile
I have no use for your adornments
for there are better things to do
than to cry over the heart of Man

We Were Told to Paint the Houses White

We were told to paint the houses white
like an impartial, starry dove

Before they come to inspect
between our teeth, behind our eyes
Invite me to be witness to your sin

I think about what you feel
When you pant and gasp
inside my solid gloom

We were told that our ghosts
would be left in peace

Which death squad did you invite
to narrate your afternoon
next to the unpainted houses

Bloody, gangrened doppelgängers
laugh and cheer
foaming at the mouth

We were told
we had to forgive our own sins

Blinded, listening to the song
of a pious, aching dove
Do you know how to repent?

Invite me to be witness
before the houses are repainted
and the ghosts are let down

This Isn't Anything

What if you really knew
the darkness I keep in my heart
Old
Love
What if I took off the mask
you taught me to make myself
Pulp whisked hurriedly, braided together
Old love fitted perfectly around
all the blemishes you can’t stand to look at
You have always known me
This
Isn’t
Anything
New

We all sing, together:
When do I get to say something?
I salivate just as much as you do
When is my howl?
Old love, is this the chorus?
This
Isn’t
Anything
if I don’t care what it’s like
to be you