Spiraling odes of love and loss,

lost pages strewn on the desk and the floor and the eyes and the sky and my limbs,
each one with a piece of myself I do not want to see anymore.

what have I created?

gaping mouths, the pages metastisize. I need to find the eye,
thread myself through the tornado. I miss,
the needle always misses, and a drop of blood puckers
at the scene of the crime.

I put it in my mouth, hiding, but then it comes again.

Revulsion in my veins, running. Throbbing,
with each pulse of my ever-beating heart.
Blooming disgust, a positive feedback loop of smoke.

A girl showed me a picture of me the other day,
and I said "ew", not because I meant it but because I felt it.

The picture was beautiful. She asked if I wanted to retake it.
I shake my head, watching as a crimson drop

stains the sky.