make this death look like a rebirth

i've been a shut-in for a week now
masturbating to the thought
of burning
yet another hole
in the thin fabric of
yet another boring
thin face i'm wearing in fear
of spilling and stains
of breaking my bones
and wants
and needs

(my fingers
always marked with
nicotine and copper and a thousand
small deaths
as they caress the most
difficult
paths of my ill-fitting skin)

fantasize of a me devoid of shackles
of suppression and silence
dream of a storm to tear away
the walls

and make me wet
and take me as
i come
again and again

until i bleed through and
show everything i am
or could be
all the colours
the words i cannot
bring myself to utter
in any language

until i'm rubbed raw

embraced by bruises

exploding

exploring the sea of
open wounds that finally
speak of all the
passion.