You are the tree

and the woodcutter.

You raise the axe with trembling grace,

mark your own bark with devotion—

a lover’s wound,

a betrayal rehearsed.

You put holes on yourself

in search of a home for yourself.

Each hollow echoes louder than the last,

as if emptiness could echo back a name.

Like a bullet,

small and deadly,

with its metallic tongue—

you speak in fragments.

Not words, but fractures of longing

sharp enough to lodge in bone.

Thus, you became

a god living in margins.

You watched hands strangling you

and blamed your breath

for its resilience.

Your half lungs wore

the mark of a traitor then.

You saw boots crushing you

and blamed your blood

for making them dirty.

You then tried to 

scrub and clean them.

Like the divorced feather of a pigeon,

you flew down:

an aesthetic suicide.

No fanfare.

No grand entrance. 

Just soft descent.

You melt like

an unused birthday candle

recycled into a crayon—

pressed against paper,

you drew sunsets

you’ll never see.

You move like the smoke of a cigarette

that won’t kill, because

You are soon going to be

the royal dinner

of a worm-shaped angel group.

May be they will feast on your pain 

and call it salvation.

May be will burrow into your metaphors

and find you holy.

Their hunger may kiss you 

A little softly.

But for now—

you are here.

When will you be

a human enough?

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