So many poems about love —
but you don’t need them.
So many poems about spring —
but what’s the point for you?
In your veins — acid.
(black, filthy sludge)
It feeds you.
It lets you stand upright.
(And no one will doubt it.)
You were killed as a child — still small, still a child —
and the world didn’t feed you love from the cradle.
It fed you a thousand sharp shards!
They pierced you, left wounds on your soul.
And without wanting to — you grew a tyrant inside yourself.
The child grew up.
Left alone with yourself — you understand:
the acid controls you.
*(2019)*