Is it the same me,
Tearing myself apart,
Or is it you,
Treating tearing like an art?
A piece of me goes,
In every stroke you strike
Multiple me,
Circuses,
Hoping to become,
I.
The axe took me away,
From previous form and shape,
Moulding into something
That shouldn’t just stay.
Now I look
Ugly and dead,
Like a pile of wood,
Stuffed to dry and decay.
Trying to live ,
In splintered pieces,
With memories of yesterday.