My words are wanted for dirty, dark-red murder
corroded arteries, cancerous thoughts
Or post-tragic stardom?
As illiterate as this understanding is-
wholly unethical in every anticipated way
why am I so goddamn
without ever tasting blood?
Without you leading me, my own two shaky legs must suffice
At a crossroads and the thought stings me,
which direction do I turn?
With all of three senses-
I can’t distinguish whether I am blindfolded or ear-muffed
Neither matter though.because either way I suspect it,
-Unable to hear you.
-Unable to let you hear me.
And no metaphor will fix this.