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Spaghetti knots

Seppuku with a xylophone

Her stomach blurts out

something onto my elbow

while she scratches

below like an itch

and the night listens

to how our bodies


as day rushes to peek

at us too


This is the end

so let’s at least

pretend we’re excited

as we were in the beginning

while we barter over an organ

or just a limb,

when I give you a spleen

which I did grow fond for

and take back my rib cage

which sits like an xylophone

that I’ve forgotten how to play,

the notes discord

without reason,

the sound that is felt

when out of place

like when you ask

to get back a journal

that you gave me

on our anniversary

even though it’s just dead trees

and the part of me that wrote in it

is just dead Kacper,

a different tree

that still dies from the top down,

that branches

around the little bark

of hardcover

that was actually just soft

bits of him

layered and layered

like a katana

so seppuku wouldn’t sound so bad

– better than the rib cage, at least –

in the end.


Did you get enough love

or too much

that you’ve spilled

and it’s a mess

and you think you want

no affection

no expression

no emotion

ever again

until you walk in winter

in clothes that are too sparse

and inhale a breath

that warms you

for a short while.

About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters. Follow my wordpress or my IG (@_kenkan)


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