shortcuts obscure, and burn out of existence
so I take the long way around. the piercing sound
of the beating sky uncovers demons hidden behind
the doors of sadists. I count the windows of his house
I watch him work, hanging the faces of his unwilling lovers
onto the walls. occasionally I would visit, sometimes
I would leave bleeding; other days I wouldn’t feel for days.
when they asked why I always returned I would explain
it was the closest thing to death I would ever feel.
if one day you hear of my suicide, don’t pity me
the world was never enough, and neither was he.