Fucking the Artist

when i looked where they told me to search, I found so many clues, all pointing the gun at you. and the mission statement was worded decisively,
so no one could escape the fate planned for me: a hospital bed, within Greater Columbus. a third floor view of the world I blamed on you when they fed me their lies, out of their fucking vicious minds. well, I’ve grown beyond that now.

but, in that bed, is where you slept, two weeks before I arrived. you laid victim to my verbal attack, a week later you died. they searched your body in the autopsy, for any signs of foul play. no wound, no bruised, no poison in the system, boredom filled the examiner’s day. he gave up on your cause, it must’ve missed him: your death was lost somewhere within your head.

but the x-rays made the nurse begin to cry. your body’s hollowed out from the inside. and the tears she wept mingled with your hair. something reignited, and those fears collided; possibly a reaction with the air. the veins in your arms tightened around nothing, pumping blood into your head, the death that cursed you suddenly was lifted. in a moment, you came to, a cylinder of no volume. and your heart began to race.

you’re up the hall, and out the door, a cylinder of skin, sliding across the city floor. through the park, you smile at the dogs, and finally you reach our old street. and the freezer’s been left open, in the kitchen that we shared. and our living room is ridden with some other girl’s hairs. noises scream from the back room.

what will you do now, that you came to, to return to the life that disemboweled you, and found your place filled by a stranger; sleeping in your bed, beside your man, eagerly holding onto his hand, trying to make him happy, to kill that infinite sadness? her hair’s colored like the dirt they had dug up for your grave, on a plot to which you are forever enslaved. you beg for the mud to engulf your face.

and her smile’s worth
a thousand words
a small picture
veiled by his tears and blood.
he tried to cover it up,
but she wiped them off,
and they dried
around the edges,
forming a frame
of magnificent
attractiveness.
you just can’t grip
what to make of this.
but, this is what you get
for fucking the artist.