this is it, mental suicide, social breakdown.
a king and queen, a hundred fold.
children pouring from every furnace,
i am unsure what is becoming of us,
or if turning the tables is like splitting spines
or cracking skulls.
shedding lips, crucifix formats for our
daily occasions, waking up next to
sheets marked in chalk, post-it notes
placed around the house of where
we should have held hands, made
love, crumbled into one another.
this is bipolar disorder at it's finest,
"i love you."
point blank sentences, curl them around
our tongues, the royal court reading out
queen of the bipolars,
king of anxiety disorder.
[fuck they've caught us on pages,
a hundred stories long.]
there's our throne, laden in blood, crack
children's eyes across our crowns, the
king's jewels all in a row.
what now. what now. what now.
oh right. time to rule. your hair makes
a finely tuned floss, ripping unneeded particles
from crevices, abyss lovers cradled in tumbleweeds.
come on now, decorate the kingdom, i want
asylums at every corner. years in the making,
centuries into destruction.
come on now, cough it up, so i can replant
it out back, grow children, forge informalities.
this isn't a duty, it's a right.
rightfully rip mothers from their babies,
women wrapping lines around your tombstone
preparing a midsummer's meal.
rightfully pluck the teeth from your gums,
destroy yourself one by one. beauty at its
rightfully tell me you love me.
come on now say it.
don't make me worry.
you bald creature, you're dying alive.
[you dying queen]
and i would just like to tell you,
mary had a little lamb,
but i ate it.