Copy And Paste

 i have been pasting photographs over the holes in my heart,

what remains of it,

bug, smiley snapshots and selfies with perfect hair,

wearing a mask of myself over my swollen, infected and hollowed out chest.

Close-up you can smell the death on me,

covered in all these forged portraits of a man who knows he's loved.

But each morning i wake with my festering sadness,

and i lean against the shower wall and howl,

i lean right into that loneliness and pain 

like the moons of Jupiter, 

and submit to excavation of another hole,

the gory dug-out flesh discarded on the tile.

No cameras there.