Exsanguination

The Butchering of My Soul

Image by Kelly

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Every time 
             I start 
                 to climb 
out 
                                        of this hole
   archons                         pull me 
back                               at the speed of light
    toward                          the abysmal 
                 memory foam 
                at the 
                    bottom.

Some frolicking genie 
tramples over my fingertips
on their way 
to grant a wish 
to someone more deserving;
                                                      but it’s comfortable 
                                                      in the darkness,
                                                      where a spot 
                                                      has taken my form.

My mother was diagnosed bipolar 
                                                      when she was a young woman.
Got memories of psychosis 
                                     feeding on her angelic being.
And often,     I
         wonder 
         if I hadn’t spent my twenties in such 
                                                                                             solitude—
                                      if that same torment 
                                      would have been 
exposed 
                                      in me too
                                                                   —would I have been diagnosed 
                                                                                      like her?

So, it's in that solitude, 
             that dark abyss, 
where I have learned to cope.


As a teen, someone told her daughter
she would have a sad life if she stayed with me.
She was right. 
                            Oh, was she right?

                                               My eyes shed crocodile tears
                                               as my mouth feeds on my own heart
                                               bleating like a lame fawn.

I run from my past, 
                and future, 
 convincing myself
I’m living in the present—
the now
—like some enlightened being.
                         
                          Often fantasizing
                          about bleeding myself dry 
                          of emotion,
                          like a butcher 
                          exsanguinating livestock 
                          in an abattoir.

© Jozef Cain, 2025
Originally published in Franco Amati's publication, Scuzzbucket.
Revamped for Black Coffee Poetry.