Inside my corpse, is a gallery.
Haunted, harrowing harm,
that I inflicted on myself,
a collection of corpses,
within my corpse,
that is kept warm,
by my eternally beating, broken heart.
I don’t know that I ever existed,
sometimes I looked at myself as a museum of my muses,
how they slipped through my fingers,
how I found myself so busy,
being fascinated with them,
that I never found the time to find myself.
What am I,
except an endless cry of
“Darling, I’d do anything”?
Unrelentingly uttered to the lonely lobby I live in,
shadows of senseless goodbyes,
that wait on my walls,
staring me down,
far after all light has left.
Cut me open,
and see how little remains.
