that's why it always fill me with thoughts

of drawing countries of ruin on my body.

say: i try to draw different maps leading

to redemption on my wrists, and none

looks like a country a child wants to stay.

i'm dark, silent and void—i have nothing

to do with light. my silence is fluider than

my poetry—only my first drafts can read it.

last night, my anxiety stares at me deeply

it's time to draw another map, it commands.

i obey—like i obey the thirst tied to my lust

when asked to beat my erection till it waters.

my wrist has become a catalogue of maps.

i cannot stand the horrible maps i've drawn,

so i don't let anyone see it—not even god.

sometimes i want to drop the kitchen knife,

pick up a revolver and feel something new.

it's another night—i offer my anxiety empty

threats—if i wake up one more fucking time,

i want to wake up with a reformed body.