Push & Pull

My love is a tangled wire. Its noose premade and packaged with a pink bow. On the tops of an emptied dresser. Its body collects all the space. Its box, a center piece for the story of my life. My cries are spoken through sign language no one can read. In their masks, the cult dances around my battered body. Foreigner's who dream together. Foreigner's who feel far. Displayed center piece, they watch me burn. Its sorrow painted art, I, the muse, his hand on the brush. Foreigner's eyes on the destruction, they cannot turn away during the shedding of skin. Venus of Taurus, mother of love without meat to hold her bones.

Borderline between catatonia and psychosis.

Metal burns until it melts into a symphony.

Time moves in reverse, soil and slit.

In my dreams you watch me sleep. At the edge, on the bed, a lonesome bulldog. Jagged teeth, mouth full of bullets. Gunpowder canvases the ceiling, destruction is beautiful when you're already dead. He keeps me warm with his hand on my throat, the burning of friction, a love letter long wept. Everything we forget becomes fragmented jarred. He's a fascinator, he's a killer of the real. Roads lead us to the thicket, my hands tied, pines that never shine.

Smoke floats up through my gums and curls out my nose. The burn feels better than to be broken. His guiltless games play on my heart with conviction. Damned to breathe in the codes, his DNA snaps in my inner layer. My voice cannot scream. My mouth belongs to the fascinator.

Severed head syndrome. The weather is warmer, and he's still colder.

Wonder when I'll get bolder, my fascinator.