Gore
Hissing like the glide of silk
A python curls upon my throat
It’s not his fault that he was born to kill
The blueing of my skin makes me a ghost
It’s not his fault that he was made to kill
Why is it when I part my lips
A little bird is born and flies
The python wishes he was born with wings
He forced it out, now robs it of the sky
He wishes he was made to fly
It was my friend, the biting wind
Caressing, rosing up my face
Red apples in my cheeks like I’m a kid
A dying dog sits patiently and waits
Excited to be euthanized and skinned
A wound so fresh that it still bleeds
Three bony fingers dig inside
The carpet splattered scarlet red with beads
My gore’s a jewel I get to wear with pride
You take and take till it’s not longer mine
The passive, gray fruit of your eye
When it’s on me, it’s like it speaks
My fruits are green therefore they don’t reply
Your words are like a puzzle, missing piece
Should be a joke but sounds more like a lie
There’s something silly in it all
In stealing words from children
When you decide to put them in your art
My presence is in plain sight, hidden
But you will always know I played a part
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