kaleidoscope of rot #

i used to think creation was beautiful,
that spilling myself onto paper meant making something of worth-
meant i’d write a book,
stand tall, gaze at it,
and whisper, “this is mine, this is beautiful.”
but poetry isn’t beautiful.
mine isn’t.
it’s an autopsy with no anesthesia.
skin flayed back,
muscle shredded,
bones cracked to powder.
i take my remnants,
stuff them into a kaleidoscope
where the mirrors are lined
with the mouths of people
whose words left trenches across my flesh.
i peer inside.
the mirrors fracture me more.
each shard snaps into finer pieces,
until there’s no shape left,
no pattern,
just blood.
red spreads everywhere,
a raw smear across the lens.
no veins. no sinew.
no artistry.
just carnage pretending to be color.
a poet can look at a leaf
and sculpt it into something holy-
leave you unable to see green without feeling worship.
but what do i do?
i amputate my limbs,
arrange them on a canvas,
splatter what’s left in pigment
just to cover the red.
but it bleeds through.
it always bleeds through.
and yet,
the beauty of it lies in how
you can’t recognize this rot
until you’re in a park,
watching the sun kiss the horizon.
the air’s soft.
birds thread songs through the breeze.
people walk by, hand in hand,
hearts light.
but all you want
is to be murdered
here, beneath their feet
to let the soil drink you in.
while they stand above,
enjoying their sunsets,
their lovers’ laughter.
as you rot, forgotten,
beneath their world.