You're the butane underneath my lighter,
the fire that used to be much brighter,
and the disfigurement caused by old burns.
I'm the mortician/eulogy writer,
the black tourniquet that wraps you tighter,
and the resurrection when pain returns.
You're the needle that never leaves my spine,
the reason that love and death intertwine,
and the sandpaper that scratches my throat.
I'm the castle walls you couldn't design,
the stalker worshiping an obscene shrine,
and the deflated raft that wouldn't float.
You're the silhouette on my closet door,
the toxic virus that infects a whore,
and the hypnotist with contorted eyes.
I'm the scalpel in Satan's dresser drawer,
the bitter taste of demonic rapport,
and the convent filled with spiders and flies.
You're the bloodstains of lust's insanity,
the putrid hole that sleeps inside of me,
and the winter night I can't recreate.
I'm the ocean's wreckage with no debris,
the product of homeless malignancy,
and the bones that rusted at Heaven's gate. |
Submission Name: Bone Marrow
