only love can truly kill
real death, not the kind that leads to another life
the kind of death that traps you
gutless and wandering
walking aimlessly, bowel and sinew trailing behind
soulless, faithless, living, but without life
insanity buried deep, a seed planted long ago
once dormant, stagnant, begins its slow growth
it roots in the love, that perfect love
every scar, took decades to harden, become white,
now they bleed, open, and it burns again
nostril filling stench, new and still familiar
you will never know what you have done.
You can’t, no one can, it is exclusive to me
To my blood, my magic, my pain.