Wednesday, May 23, 2012


To love you is to burn myself
Not just in words
But with fire from a dying stove
Trace a line of aftershave
On my wrist
Hoping to scar the places where
You love me the most.


I have often wondered how your moans would sound
Neglected after many years of my heart breaking indifference
A quick shove of despair between your swollen thighs
Or nights spent in vain confessing my adolescent lies.

I wonder, would the moans of love and despair be different?
Or would they also, like our bodies, face different sides?

Your moans at night are heard across the deep black skies,
They reach my ears, they question my lies
You lie in your bed covered in blood
Ovulating, pulsating;
And all I do is write dark stained free verse lines.