Self-Portrait

You were mossy
And green and
They handed you
A desert, all full of
Wormwood and
Desolate.
You held roses
And they ripped them
From your grip, letting
Thorns dig in to
Fragile skin,
Blood like
Rubies in the dust
Before you, glistening,
Can never come home
Again.
Rows of tombstones
In your veins,
Every heartbeat a flood
That carries
Corpses to the core of
Memory.
They laugh like
Frightened children
When confronted
With your gaze.
Your eyes like lead
Weights drown them.
Interred in a panicked
Haze where nerves are
Flames that lick at
Tenderness,
Cauterizing empathy
Numbing your frail
Heart.

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