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
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.