poem: no longer can i sense the best end to a poem

loneliness was the through-line, the resurrection, the dioceses — i am
bowled over by it, i let it crouch in my mouth and reconsider:
phallic anime hands in the night, little boys raping me! loneliness was
the sick dark slick of imagining and the curtain-line of red
cut (but never, never) down the blue delta of veins in my
wrist — it is the old cry, you miss this! you miss this! you lie
to yourself but you miss this. i lived inside it– my own MFA and
way of escape, the thin and dangling road which sleeps behind
the thread of my heart. all the music which made me was
cut into it, can i (this quickly) be invalided by faux
intellectualism? try this hard to remake myself? but i have no
conception of myself under happiness, no wonder i do not
feel like “myself” — she is the little priest she is drecked
in ash!! and you watching watching waiting for the
break (i am seen) — i am sad and i write, the overgrown
ghost of myself from Death crouched long-limbed
and waiting again for the fall, now i am all grown-up
and fine!!!