fuckingyourstabwounds.org

I reach inside of you like a pricing game,
pull out slips of things, read them aloud.

I wear your panic like musk, taxidermy
the remainder of your vinyl collection.

Shhh, this isn’t your blood; it’s my love
breaking the dam of your skin.
 
 
eatmygapingplothole.au

The autopilot always worked,
your mouth as trigger; I counted the
popcorn hanging like an empty threat
on the ceiling.

When you crossed the border,
I connected the popcorn into
a maze, Jason, Minotaur;
I forgot the string.
 
 
J. Bradley is the Web Editor of Monkeybicycle. He lives at iheartfailure.net.