nothing is beautiful anymore

not even my agony.

there’s a flowerless rose bush

threaded through my ribs.

just thorns and bloodshed.

a walking crucifixion

without a resurrection.

there is nothing

holy about me.

/

beauty must be worth it—

so i’ll peel the faded-gold flakes

off the canvas with my fingernails.

rainwater collects in my lungs

like the slowest drowning.

what else could I do?

what else could I do?