the loss of my unborn self

i have kissed the blisters under your skin a thousand times, and still when you wrap your sins around my waist i can only vaguely recognize them. i count the dips between each syllable of your apology and wonder what was meant to fill each space. by the time the sounds rise again to meet your lips and bluster toward mine, the apology seems insincere, weakened by the affection you thrust at me like ultraviolet rays.

when am i going to know that i am more than a plaything to rub skin with? life is dying inside of me, and i'm exhausted from decay, from want, from disappointments and disillusionment. i am beaten and burned, martyred like a thief at golgotha. my nerves are scarred, my senses are clenched against my history and my breath is heavy. i don't need more apologies, especially ones that are only filler words spaced across gaps of meaning.

there are parts of me which, when provoked, awaken a deep hatred for myself and all others, parts that are kept carefully guarded against exposure to the sunlight. because, when the beast smells the first wafting scent of blood, the beast rears up, the beast is unleashed from its shackles and the beast must feed. when i am a beast, i will not listen to you. i will devour you in all your weaknesses,

and i am not sorry

because an apology is worth less than a dead leaf crumpled without hope in a gutter. when am i going to become a voice, and not a comfort, tucked away under your blisters?  i have cleaned my blood, but when will the poison stop running through your veins? when will you break into a million glass pieces to weep for humanity? i am fragile, and i will break myself without you... and if i could, i would cry with the power of a single cello, sweeping the room into a pile to be shaken into the wind.