String Theory

Black can be bright
when it’s the deepest color you see.

It’s a spill—
the needle and prick and pooling of the oil
that spreads and stains.

My fingers are black and sticky—
it’s like my skin is the stringing,
a dark web of pitch waiting to catch
the fly and suffocate—
not devour—
but snuff the light from the diamond eyes.

They say death is bright—
a flash and a bang
when you strike the light at the end of the tunnel.
Instead, it holds and enfolds
and slaves you—

the burden of being alive.
It is hard to grieve for the undead—
when they gnaw on your brains
and dig their blackness into yours.

But you will rise as the bile
drips from my fingers—
the black that strings and connects us—
a theory of life and death and love.

But it doesn’t matter as we stumble
into the dark—
because black can be bright
when it’s the deepest color you see.


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