self destruct

nothing is truly sacred here; nothing is truly profane
we turn magpies into martyrs and our fresh carrion idols
glisten in the lamplight like beads of sweat upon your
forehead–even my jocular insufficiencies seem like they
could be used to wipe your pedestal, that marbled glass
that bears witness to the tedium of the day–were it only
for the irises in my hands, your eyes, i could give them
up to the unappeasable gods and pray for blood to water
the soil that will eventually cradle me as softly as the
woman who birthed me did, or at least must have, or at
least–maybe not. my skin turns to parchment that coils
in your hand like origami by any other name, and the
cranes fly into your mouth like a building, shattered.


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