The horror of skin pulled tight against ribs,
Anger and lust and grief hijacking
the director's reigns,
until the movies of our lives are lurid snuff films
pieced together footage from the crash site.
The horror of the body and it's uncontrollably,
to find oneself an unformed character,
and the author was
everywhere and nowhere to be found.
And I was surely a fool.
That much I was certain of.
I held a gun to my own back
and made myself do it.
I buried truths I'd known alive,
screaming and scratching at the lids of pine coffins.
I lied. And died a liar.
A dead liar lying
on a cold stone table.