Trapped in the rib cage
of a behemoth reflection
She is screaming like choirs, directed by
the earthquakes of its war drum pulse
Forcing the march of damned blood cells forward,
through the open wound of its neck

I am he who built graveyard worlds
from despondent cases of emptiness
not speaking my name in vain;
I am he who painted flowers
upon the tombstones of all heavy hopes my back could not carry--
praying that I could grow up

Fragments of her spilled through
the mirror image of a prison of bones,
where she held my heart hostage

Asking what shape it is that I've chosen to take before her,
she tries not to be disgusted at herself
With tired eyes framed in broken strands of her hair
I tell her that our bodies sometimes reflect our souls
And she spoke softly, as if unsure as to what to do next
when she saw the scars that covered me from head to toe

Her eyes started to reflect what she saw back at me like mirrors,
which, when caught off-guard by my own triggers,
I couldn't help but to break;
making her force a sad laughter
as she wrote her suicide letter with needles drenched in snow-white dreams
pitying me for how I'd interpreted growing up to mean turning monsters into men

And all I have left is the hope that
someday, I'll find a heart hardened enough
to be held in my broken hands without being crushed.