My Monster
Once again, she
ripped and clawed her way
through the
tough layers
of
I'll never love you again
and I let her.
I’m a weak man in my nightmares.
Arson
It's birth. It's death.
It's that crooked
little bitch-faced
grin of satisfaction that
he will display once there
is a fire devouring
inside his guts, and
inside his eyes . . .
stoked by cardiac
heaves of commingled
emotions, saturated
and lit ablaze by a
touch.
It's fingers. It's lips.
It's cocks. It's cunts.
It's LOVE,
or the act of love
that brings the birth
to provide the death,
and the fires lit inside while
he waits just happen —
one day he, you, we and they
will all smear this world with
nothing but ashes and hope;
I hope.
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