sting

i want to be a martyr,
and die for the chance
to sleep with the ghost of your kisses
your touch and your sighs
on myself,

but every time the bottle/blade
trudges toward my mouth/wrists
the blank-eyed reflection
of everyone i’d be giving up for the illusion
staring unblinkingly back at me
shocks the shit out of me

and i write a poem instead.

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