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won't you trust me? my canted smile in the dark, my promise to protect what's precious. yes, what sparkling porcelain; what clean white walls. how thick are the windows? how close are the neighbors? hand me you, tender. i'm craving to ruin.

i'm sorry that your life has amounted to this. you were made for more.

maybe if i rip a few things apart with my teeth, i'll feel better.

i would have held her to me though time had stripped away the tones and textures of her skin. i could have held her for a thousand years until the skeleton itself rubbed away to dust.

because i'm my mother's son, i leave the arrows in my throbbing heart. what kills me keeps me alive.

i will grind you down until the very sparks cry for mercy.

there is a bleeding heart behind your eyes like none that i have ever seen, and i know a thing or two about blood.

we do not talk about the mistakes. we do not bring them to the light. we let them sit inside us in all the dark places, we let them fester and rot, and, eventually, we let them kill us. all in due time, of course. but we never speak of them.

i'm a sinner trapped by the tabernacle of my body. the power goes out but i can't leave the house, so i crouch on the back porch and watch lightning spread its angel wings across the plumskin—colored sky. the empty trees are asking me to take their hands.

the apocalypse begins in colorado, between rounds of war games in the flower gardens. mama used to say it would start with the water running red and fire riding the sunbeams down to this godforsaken rock; grandma used to say that it would be redemption.

the distractions fail. i'm forced to confront the fact that i am still as sick as i've always been.