You burned into me unsalvageable desire. My flesh is scorched, arteries and veins ravaged (they hang in the space between what was and could’ve been), presenting me with my own sin – I must look it in the face. Yet you, I couldn't. I looked deep and hard while your eyes were elsewhere, as if it was my only chance to devour a glimpse of you. But I could not meet your eyes.
God, I'm famished. Between the blood that trickles out of my mouth while I sleep, and the pillow that champions the forlorn stains, there is a cosmic imbalance that has started to cut off my hair at the root, and loosen my fingernails while I’m not looking. I’m rotting, for you. And the smell of smoke is my remedy, it coats me with a proud indifference, a lust to step outside and look at the sky, ready to find nothing at all, (and inhale everything that could divulge to me the tomb of God). There is nothing love will not do to us.
You make me funnier. I had hardly forgotten you before you unstitched the festering wound. It was made of a million spider eggs in the process of hatching; so I suppose I could be a mother, after all. You have to understand, you should be nothing to me. I have told you I want to drink your blood, and it is only because I know how the taste lingers, relentless like the essence of you, which I often find in melodies and sights and thoughts of a distant past, and maybe the bottom of a bottle. My inner sanctum is that of self-indulgence, deceit, oblivion. You, a falling of fragments, a repositioning of perspective, unravelling before eyes that seem to me more intimate than my own. You are just as afraid; I can almost taste it.
Sing for me like I used to, or play that damned guitar, tell me something I don’t know, and set me on my way (away from you). You’re so far from me that you’ve become someone else on paper. You are unrecognisable when written in this ink. Anon, anon, you are two people and you think I forgot. There is nothing profound at all, ever, anywhere, for any reason, to anyone. There is only that space between your bleeding mouth and dove-white pillow, and it is a mere five centimetres apart, at best.