he gift—wraps self—sacrifice and calls it love; he has never known how to love any other way. he has never given his heart in scraps. it has always been laid bare, whole and beating, on the altar.

a burnt child loves the fire.

you would shoot me? your own brother?

you're pretending that you could be good, that you could be anything other than part—knife part—wound.

i invented a life for myself, so at least i'd live somehow.

it's cruel. it's unfair. it's ironic and it's everything the torment you deserve.

i can't promise you you're not going to die alone, but trust me to take you home.

here he is again, being sewn up. so now we have come to a great battlefield, the warmth of the fire, the fire still burning, the heat escaping like a broken promise.

the only thing they like about you is the tightness of your leash.

the angels do not sing and the holy trumpets stay dead silent. you are clung to by death / a haunted mausoleum / a tomb inescapable & forever re—carved.

your little brother never tells you, but he loves you so.

i did not ask to be this hideous creature of cracked skin and snarling voice. this prison of flesh is the only thing you ever gave me, so i will wear it until you regret that you created it.

rage, like a prayer, unanswered, ricocheting from your ceiling and landing right onto your eyes, never quite reaching where it was meant to.

we eat, breathe, fall in love and die.

i can't even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being.

let me tell you about my childhood. damaged & ripped apart. i have been unhappy for as long as i could remember. i was born mouldable, and through violence, i was shaped into a monster.

you are so brave and quiet i forget you are suffering.

now a black—and—blue oval on my hip has turned blue—violet as the ink—brand on the husk—fat of a prime cut, sore as a lovebite, but too large for a human mouth. i like it, my flesh brooch.

...make death proud to take us.

i could love you violently, if i let myself.