I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.
Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.