You pretend that you cared about her.
You never got to know her.
And despite her obsession,
She knew in her bones
That parts of her needed to remain locked
Because you hurt, you like the smell of blood,
You like girls on their knees,
You excel when you hear them scream
Their pain out of their hearts
And they sicken and can’t get away from you
And your duplicating gestures
Of attention, of erection, of stupefaction,
You want to possess them, all in fragments,
Buried and dug up, you bathe in their despair,
Your lungs get so full,
The perfume of disaster,
Your lips pressed onto unforgiven flesh,
They do everything wrong,
You make them feel so bad, so exhausted,
So attached to the unwholesomeness that is you,
To their inner lack, the call for help,
And you stuff their mouths, full,
And they overeat, undereat, can’t spit you out,
You weave yourself into the texture of their skin
And intend to stay there forever, blemished,
Stained, bloodred, ghost-white, off the street,
Thornbush, don’t pretend, she knows this story well.
Croque-Melpomene 