If Only...If only I could find some way
to make you die
and silence that scimitar smile
that slices so fine
Every time you open your lips and say
those words I loathe to hear.
They're pushed past teeth like razor blades
Severing my last connection,
with those fine slices,
to all that gave me the strength to go on,
I can't take much more,
Of your bright stiletto eyes that
drive deep, plunging
past the bullshit fog that covers
the fine scars you left
last time we had one of these little talks,
Or bloody assaults.
I can't see which way to go now,
There's blood in my
eyes and ears and nose, clogging my
once so fine senses,
Leaving me wide open to your tender,
This is how you love me to be
isn't it dear?
Lost, confused and stumbling on
while you finely trim
away the parts of me you can't stand to
be with any more.
There's never rest for the wicked,
or so you say,
as fingers like scalpels caress
and slice so finely,
Sculpting a brand new me for your pleasure,
ThresholdStepping up to the threshold
with a pocket full of cyanide
and a handful of gummy bears.
Best not get those two mixed up,
At least, not just yet.
Not sure why I'm here,
Why my feet wandered
and led me off the beaten track.
I swore I'd never come here again,
Not while you're still breathing.
Maybe that's it though,
Maybe that's why I'm here,
I'm here to see you die this day
and make this place my own
private monument of triumphant grief.
You hurt me in ways no-one
else could or would have dared,
Ripped me up and scattered me
to fertilise that budding, swelling
ego with which you're so pleased.
I hope they tasted nice at least,
The bitter tears mixed with sweet
screams marinading the meat
of my shattered psyche for all
those years since we were last here.
Times ticked on though and now
it seems like it's my turn at last,
My turn to do as has been done,
Here in this place, the place
that made me who I am today.
And when I'm finally done I'll
sit and watch you rot, true, it'll
be a while,
Silk and SkinThese stitches are so fresh and bloody,
Your tongue so gentle as it laps at them,
The tip exploring to the edge of each thread.
These threads that weave with one another
a revelation made of silk and skin.
A pane to let you see inside
the places where you walk so freely,
Yet remain barred to all else who try.
You're so very demanding you know,
Always wanting to delve that little bit deeper,
To pull free the guts of my scars and fears
clear of the barricades I patiently errected.
Holding them up to the light of day,
As you turn them this way and that,
Puzzling over the mysteries of the gorey mess
that you hold so carefully in your cold palms.
It's pleasure almost to the point of pain,
A rushing thrill that I can't control,
Overwhelming my thoughts as your tongue laps,
Somehow never interrupting you and the endless
questions that spill from your painted perfect lips.
I'm yours to do with as your whims will,
You know that, you've always known that,
Right from the very first day we met.
Dear Dead PeopleDear Dead People,
Please forgive the
tone of this letter
but there's something
that I really have to say:
I'm serious now.
I'm sick and tired
of catching glimpses
of you out of the corner
of my eye, or feeling
your dank, rancid breath
on the back of my neck.
AND IT'S DRIVING ME CRAZY!
(Not in a good way either)
More that that, it never stops!
You're always there,
Watching from wherever
you've ended up and while
I'm sorry you're all dead,
Really, I am, but still,
This constant haunting's
really starting to get me down,
I'm sorry I wasn't more vocal
in my sadness at your passing,
I'm sorry I didn't seem to care.
I don't enjoy the theatrics of
death you see; I don't have
this need to convey my feelings.
Just go away.
At least for a little while?