self portraits. oils, gouache

this is the place where the faggots gather in their tenderness

i am some quiet devouring and a flare of pain in the line of my ribs, the flow of my spine

so wholly consumed is the world

some moth-eaten prize for the taking, a jaw pried open at the spill of blood and spit

a tired verse in some half-forgotten song.

when i was 12, me and my friend jessie blew up the heart of god and plundered its treasures like piñata candy

the ruins, the ruins. they call to you

the ruins tower a graveyard of children. at its core is a small-handed plea to be spared deaths worse than death. childish bones are not suited to face the wrath of wars they played no part in; history's weight is no burden for their small shoulders.

they never tell you about history as it lies in your bed; as it gasps in the sheets, sweat-drenched and wanting. it is a ghost that lives alongside you.

the contours of my spine escape me. lungfuls of pain spill into the hollow of my ribs and bloom. the ache of it, a skewed view of virtue. i am left behind in the wake of its flame and consumed by that which ails me. there is only what knows the grace of leaving in the aftermath.