How cold the iron is

How cold the iron is
that sits upon my chest
heavy and unyielding
as if an iron vest

Within the chest a flower
it used to be in bloom
once it blossomed beautifully
but now there is no room

Flattened is the flower
the petals too are pressed
from this heavy, heavy iron
frozen on my chest.


Her life was a list

Her life was a list
She knew not
what she missed
Her days were
outlines on a page
Imprisoned in her
very own cage
She cared not
for heaven nor hell
her soul had left her body
an empty shell
She had not time
for nature nor art
A well-oiled machine
was her heart
Years ticked by on
the clock on the wall
Still she’s never spared a second
to question if this was all
When in that final box
down she willingly will lay
She’ll smile her last checkmark
on her way to Judgement Day


stop rolling apathy onto your lips
and dressing your body as a corpse
that fashionable cynicism hangs limply
on your anorexic soul
you who dream of slicing your stomach open
with the thin point of your elbow
to watch the knots within you spill out
— now, bend to untangle them.
bathe constantly in your own blood
surely this means you are alive
and these words of yours, capped in a faith
that has faith in no one, proclaim:

no, nothing matters
when everything’s matter