Ill

Trying to build myself wings out of paper and words
Paint the margins black with the spectres of my mind.
Dislodging tumorous scars
that spread to my belly with the flow of my blood.

Your name is darkness
Your face is passion
Your voice a knife
Labyrinthine mind that devours my spark
leaving me porcelain on your mantle.

Smash the panes of windows of memories
or paint them silver, looking in on myself.
I search the glass, and find only the shadow of myself
in the window behind.
Which is more hollow? I cannot tell.