the human heart is attached
to 60,000 miles of veins
my fingers have grown accustomed
to tying a tourniquet while in pain
endless units of love i have wasted
on the wrong bodies
so much love squandered
as it was pumped into me
that’s what a poet is good for
bloodletting in ink
connective tissues
splattered lace doilies
misery as currency
sad bastard love songs
& valentines day
killing sprees