because i am deep in my undoing, 
unraveling my disdain for the self
i am awfully wet right now 
i am soaked through my clothes
i am trudging through

because i am busy reversing all of my unloving
yes, rewinding my embarrassment
it is hard to make a full sentence
it is hard to focus on anything, be it still or moving

because i am knee deep in my own heart

i just cant come outside right now

not yet. 

---

where is the trouble in your heart

is it salacious?

is it black, or almost purple

does it spread

will joy kill it?

does your laughter make it grow tired 

is it unreachable?

---

the solitude that death creates allows for a deep dissection of the heart. 
allows for one to make a cast of the skin, and set it aside for other use. 
or better, let it rest on their shrine in tribute and remembrance of the self. 
how she died. how we loved her. 

a note on reality
it runs concurrently with tragedy
and fantasy

there is one dream state in which all things reside

The truth is that my heart belongs to me. It beats for me and will die in the darkness of my chest. There is nothing else to know.