rummaging in the warren of my consciousness,
searching for an ore-like-inclusions
into the fabric of time
for some recollection
of how it was when I still could grasp the meaning of pain.
… a thrist
… a rage
… a ravaging tide of phantom emotions
(I forgot how to breath under the water)
I’m the sadomasochistic axolotl of my own deceit, —
cutting myself: a piece, after a piece;
then swallowing those pieces,
listening to the hissing of a gastric acid.
yet they regenerate in a jiff.
… and so on
and nobody can’t stop this cannibalistic paraphernalia.
all the memories are only a multiplication of the same recollection of an untangled
a rigor mortis of time.
and all the cracks on my lips, —
are matching your scars.