I never wanted any of the dark I clench in both hands--
I grip dust in my palm
drip rust from my eyes
The inside of a fist is night
and seeps of sun.
I can't squeeze the hate anymore.
I'm ringing blood from my hands,
I'm committing murder suicide--
being the only victim.
So comes out the monster,
the dark
the light
the night
the evil.
Let anger lead the way.
Armfuls of all I excavated from these dirty ribs.
Let the prize of sorrows be a cup that overrun-ith over and away,
And every night I drunkenly slip on down to Dirt Town.
Come, the lost me.
The blind and refusing to see the light, me.
I'm a stumbling fool, holding onto to you,
(grips of dust)
the one who hurts me without presence.
Unable to fuck it all and kick punt my heart to the heavens.
(drips of dry rust)
There are two kinds of dark.
I'm exploring both and winding asleep into the one that's most harmful.
Soon, hopefully, very soon,
I'll be in the one that forces more of me,
the most of me,
to wonder upright,
and the light of black to seep from my palms,
like the sun, groping forth,
to bore a future of bright.
Photo by Nadia Hassler. Words by Jordan Lane Shappell.
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