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