My Own Venom

I don't feel okay and I like it

It reminds me of my forbidden love with sabotage

Her curves lie twisted on my cadaver

I'm a vessel with too much to speak on, but the cap on the bottle is sealed with grit...

I smile on bloody lips, and spread my paint on her like subjective art

I bite my tongue until I taste iron and greet pain with a sneer

It's in the convoluted sense of confidence where machismo becomes the razer that slices me open...

I'm the sempiternal habit, coaxing impulse with a false sense of accomplishment...

I keep the knife twisted so the wound heals ever so slowly; can't create art if I don't have something to be angry with...

Can't be surprised if I keep myself biting at the open gash on my lip

Can't be beaten when I'm already my own worst enemy

I'm organized masochism

I bury myself within the piles of doubt, hibernating in my innards like exposed skull on a pile of bones...

I'm the purposeful contusion, a deliberate fracture, the sinking feeling of self-loath upon a throne made from calculated anger...

I'm the reflection, not the person - because perception is empty space intended for weaponization...

…And I'm the cut out at the end of my own muzzle...

I am masochism

I am deliberate

I am fracture

I'm the reminder, nothing can break you, when you're your own venom...