What makes
beauty?
wonders Light.
The physical
the thing you can touch and see?
Or like a child's television show,
what's inside.
The organs.
The beating heart
hot and wet
surrounded by hard white bones
a cage of ribs
which he can penetrate with just a pen and some paper.
Is that beautiful?
If he tears himself open
and looks at what falls out
will that be the true measure
of his person?
He wonders.
"Study hard,"
says his mother
and he smiles.
"Help me,"
says his sister
and he smiles.
"Fuck me,"
says the knife
and he smiles
the biggest
he drives the blade into his chest
and wonders if it is more effective than dead trees and swirling black ink
if they
(L
task force
father)
are correct
if he is killing an evil mass murderer
or if it is truly a god
who screams in pain
and bleeds on his carpet.
And then
does that make him
pretty?
I found this looking through some old documents for a poetry assignment. I'm rather fond of it - I'd completely forgotten I'd written it.
Anyway, it's part of a longer story. I'm not sure how well it will work, but it could be fun to continue. My question is: would anyone be interested in reading an angsty multi-chapter narrative poem?