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?
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