The faint shadow of Santa Muerte came-
a minute after six, 
as the speakers in my workstation hummed Mr. Jones 
in hushed tones, 
The Angel prepared for flight.
Without looking at my direction, 
without waving goodbye,
without a tap on the shoulder like she did
to a colleague standing near-
She flew.
Leaving ghosts-
a trail of her scent...
For the nth time, I died .
It’s fine with me.
This ritual
taught me 
how 
not to break.
Pain is bearable when it becomes routine-
the heart atrophies,
the dead feel no pain.
Numb.
But fate is a bitch (like her)
It made damn sure that I heard
the jokes and laughter from the corridor.
Malicious.
So what if she’s starting to eat more than ever?
Maybe she’s just tired.
Maybe she’s just hungry.
Maybe just craving…
The obvious should never be stated.
The truth crushed the voyeur who had his ears on the floor.
Listening.
Why do they have to say it loud enough
for me to hear?
My imagination,
whirled.
Slumped on my desk, 
I started nursing a wounded heart
by assuring the tormented mind,
peace through
revenge.
If I had to pull it, 
from inside her-
I would.
The heart, 
my heart becomes heartless
when shoved to the edge.
The rumors, 
are nails hammered painfully--
forced to make their way into once deaf ears.
A thousand pins, 
are as painful as the cold sweat that oozed from my brows.
The brain cried murder,
the mind craved to destroy which belongs to them,
which they made
on a night of languid pleasure.
I conjured images of a 
bulge in her tummy, slowly growing 
heavy with demons.
Imps, borne of fuck.
Imps that I can kill by smashing the mother’s face against
the walls of my hate.
I breathed in, and let the anger settle.
She walked on,
I heard her footsteps as she took her exit—
So long sweet, deified whore.
Rest assured that again,
you are safe-
safe from harm,
safe from the pain my adoration brings--
‘cause like before,
my hands refused to budge,
as my heart refused to speak.
Lucky you,
the dead cannot take drastic measures,
Lucky you,
that all I can do for now
is just pretend
that nothing can
hurt me
as I slowly decay
inside my
tomb.
Lucky you,
I am 
scared.

I Am Afraid...

Punk Ass Mutha Fucka