A Billion Burning Dreams

We Often Cross The Lines We Draw He’s his own butcher. He sections himself off by cut. His worth determined by the delicateness of his slices. He’s a pig for the slaughter,

but everyone knows him as a dog. He’s his own best friend, because only he knows his secret. The diagonal lines that mark his thighs. Highways to heartache. Runways for the planes that never landed carrying all his pain. They crashed in the sea of tears he sheds sometimes. There were no survivors. He dictates the blade with a scalpel’s precision, a surgeon’s keen eyes trained to distinguish vein from artery. His artistry is incomplete. Made of misplaced media. His skin a canvas on which the paint is spilled from within, but there’s only one hue

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