It's the curse of you that I love the most.
Empty glasses rise for a midnight toast.
There's no room in your heart for the living,
but bloodstained pillows are unforgiving
because violence plays the role of a whore
and murder descends to love's killing floor.
Stars explode until you dance with a ghost.
Maybe this virus can't be diagnosed.
It's the fantasy that I love tonight,
with chemicals and the will to ignite.
I buried my dead in your hollow veins
and bound them together with metal chains.
Formaldehyde spins the chill from your spine,
preserving your body's forlorn design.
Eyes are disfigured by manic delight.
Rolled back in your head, they wake when you bite.
It's the overdose that I'd love to kill.
Church lies in ruin on top of a hill.
From the debris, your voice is a splinter,
but I'd settle for another winter.
Stab me again and I'll lick you to death,
sucking the life from your summer's last breath.
Dissected, I twitch, but only until
teeth become dull and the crosses sit still.