my body, my artifice
is designed for another beginning,
invited by the devil
from both shoulders.
back in the war of 2012,
you had your own inventions
which made you more beautiful
than death or a sandwich.
meteormen fill my sky
on an evening I write
and feel inferior to warmth,
nor the interludes.
was I sallow?
I thought I had a sweater,
made afraid
to recognize my discomfort with new love.
and all desire
lies in blockers that say oh god in sighs,
riding high in passive tendency
but aggressive passion for the past.
until they see a vice
I am not,
forgotten once but not twice,
an ending to an action, but the first to remove the future.