quaint ivy
i am an ashtray nailed to the city gates.
a grotesque exhibit.
a warning sign.
the perfect boy my parents wanted, inverted,
split open,
lined with burnt paper and spit.
they parade me as if to say: look what happens when hope grows teeth.
the stench of me hits first
vomit cooked into the summer air,
thick as incense,
holy as disgust.
i feel it drip down my chest like a sermon gone wrong
every passerby swallows their revulsion
like communion.
friends?
i had them once.
their laughter carved small chapels in me.
now, when they call, i choke.
their joy is a mirror
showing me my own absence.
so i crawl back into shadow,
a cockroach rehearsing death,
legs snapping under my own weight.
that love tastes rancid now,
like milk curdling in my throat,
but i keep sipping.
i am tired of pretending.
of saying “i’m fine” with the conviction of a condemned man.
my tongue is blistered with the lie.
i dream of vomiting it out,
projectile, endless,
a river of bile, grief,
all my rehearsed smiles floating like drowned insects.
but i know only dust would come.
dust and teeth.
dust and the echo of my parents’ disappointment,
their voices sharp as crow beaks.
they asked for gold.
i gave them rust.
they asked for light.
i gave them shadows.
they asked for a son.
i became a display.
a boy stripped for parts.
a grotesque relic hung high so no one forgets:
perfection was never in me,
only ash.
look closely.
i am not breathing.
i am twitching,
like a cockroach half-crushed,
still insisting on motion,
dragging itself nowhere.
my skin sags with smoke,
with every unsaid prayer.
the city has learned to walk faster past me,
but children still stare.
they whisper,
“is he sleeping?”
no.
this is not sleep.
this is rot dressed in daylight.
last temple
keen lark
glossy holly
but also so good
stark notch