rationales & fire in my stomach

you think this is poetry?

you're delusional.

this isn't even a sentence

i'm not good at turning

bruises into beauty.

i'm not good at

anything at all.

i can't write a coherent

motherfucking stanza

and i sure as hell can't finish one.

i'm not even good at

spilling my guts.

you could ask me to

puke on the page

and i would choke on

my own spit.

i'm illiterate.

as of right now,

my last words would be

a long-winded string of "fuck-you"s,

the kind you hear in the alley

as a theme song

to the street fight between

dumbass #1 and

drunk bastard #2-

nothing special,

but really something.

maybe it's like that,

maybe i'm best

when i'm raw.

hell, maybe i sound

best with your hands

wrapped around my throat.

is it better to lose your voice from screaming

or would you prefer to never speak at all?