I carry the death of us in my bones.
The tenses underneath my skin.
The names I gave myself, the ones you gave me.
The way you looked at my body,
The way you touched my body,
I wasn’t holding it, I was out of control,
And yet my hands got caught in a spider’s web,
Moving around, entwined, misguided, infested,
Rotating, your warmth promising shelter,
Promising a home, I could only feel bones,
Bodies without a heart, bodies without a pulse
And you grabbed me, closer, tighter, stamping
Yourself onto me, tracing yourself back to me,
Saying this is mine, this belongs to me,
It carries itself around, me, unaware, ever-wanting,
Self-inflicted, sense of self, torn, life and death,
Endless submission, of myself, itself, our selves, the way you talk,
I should have listened, your intentions were in your fingertips,
And you scratched and punched, your smile, clandestine,
The charm of rottenness, nothingness, destruction, in your veins
That preach love with a mask on, hard-on, hand to hand, second-hand,
Dry throat, empty heart, pulling bodies toward yours with toxic glue,
You want the world to burn because it hurts, ending regeneration,
Ending upon the tongues of women that are girls,
Lust that rips their hearts out, eat it, eat it, suck it,
And they’re swallowing you, body miserable, body misogynistic,
And they deaden inside, you get aroused as you watch them burn,
Melt in your hands, tethered into your flesh,
You suck, blood and tears, heartbeats, you shred and discard
And tell them to come back, tethered, into your fabric and skills,
Your passion kills, exhausts, disappoints, vicious cycle after
Vicious cycle, the choirs of women losing their voices,
And you plunged into their bodies, the collector’s vice,
And you try to survive with a woman’s will to thrive.
Croque-Melpomene 