matter of fact.

you’re on a mantle,
you’re in a jar,
the point is,
you’re not here anymore.
and the colder it gets
the farther you float away.
every day it’s like
someone tore out my guts
and laid them out on a table.
splayed,
displayed,
totally fucked.
i bleed out from every pore;
on the train,
i carry my entrails as i exit,
gather them up in my arms,
“stand clear of the closing doors.”
you are. no more.
my veins are slit
i’m losing you in rivulets; in rivers and streams.
lakes of you are disappearing.
sticky, coagulating all over my desk.
no work gets done.
red sheets in my bed
bleach cannot clean it.
you’re in a box,
you’re hanging from the wall,
you’re this pain in my head,
the point is,
you’re dead.