Seven

It is lustful to people, everything-

pain, love, veins, dying veins

As soon as you put your veil on,

everything's moralizing again

You know how trapped you are

in yourself - 

when even the white sheets of my winters

can't drown you; it is pathetic

how you held arms open to this lust

It is just about noon, we could

have been wrapping ourselves in bloody

cold blankets in a bloody cold land

and nowhere near it should be buts, ifs,

should have beens, could have beens.

I feel like a mad, really mad

old lady who after spending some tiresome

stages of life today sits and writes

to her old lover, rather a lustful betrayer-

How come we never went to the caves?

How come I can only think about you

when I feel like committing a cold-blooded

murder?

How is my brain still entailed in that witch's 

hair, flowing till the core of the ground?

I think of you to imagine you 

planting a soft kiss on my back when suddenly

you start disgusting and judging

and tearing my body,

all in a moment - I lie stoned

collecting the rip offs next

wondering just about the scars

this winter gave me.

You know, I still get those nightmares-

I talk like an agitated little flower

why have you touched me?

I wish to be put into chemicals

and these nightmares are real,

shit bloody real for I see them

with open eyes; tell me if 

any one of you get them too.

Photographs are not memories

they are horcruxes to play with

pretty much like attaching a cult

object, some sin to your breaths-

I hate your lips

as much as I hate mine.