BLUEPRINT

The grid of the world is too small for this rage.

I am my own biggest hater, a precise machine,

cutting out my tongue before the crows can feast.

The devil couldn’t reach me, so he retreated,

leaving his blueprints in my marrow instead.

I built this furnace from my own ribs.

I look into the glass and see the butcher.

Every word is an axe I sharpen at midnight.

Every breath is a cold, calculated treason.

The sky is a bruise, heavy and indifferent.

I do not need an enemy in the dark.

I am the dark, swallowing my own light.