Everyone has tasted it,
its fire, its hidden sweetness.

Wash it a thousand times,
boil it, roast it, grind it fine
still it clings, still it lingers on the tongue.

So it is with certain souls:
no kindness softens them,
no gentle word can turn their core.

Do not grieve.
Keep your flavor pure,
and let theirs be their own.

A whisper soft, a glance so bright,
"You're beautiful," a fleeting light.
Each girl delights in such a sound,
A fleeting praise, on hallowed ground.

But deeper still, a woman yearns,
Beyond the words, the praise that burns.
Not just the blush, the whispered grace,
But a true love, a steadfast space.

For beauty fades, the bloom will cease,
And fleeting words, like summer's breeze.
A love that's lived, a heart's embrace,
A truth that lingers, time and space.

She seeks not just a fleeting sight,
But a love that burns both day and night.
A bond that's strong, a soul's true art,
A love that's lived, within the heart.

The spoken word, though sweet and fine,
Cannot compare, to love entwined.
A truth that lingers, deep and true,
A love that's lived, for me and you.

I’m the one now
sitting in the old chair,
saying all the silly,
mischievous things
to my grandchildren
and somehow,
they love it.
They laugh and call it Grandpa Wisdom.
I just call it joy.
And oh, how I love it.
Thank you
for that joy.

She spoke of silver in my hair,  
A tarnished crown she couldn’t bear.  
If grief has painted strands with time,  
Then moons must fault for nights sublime.  

Each tear I shed spoke of my loss,  
Each dream a wake beneath its gloss.  
Reprove my truth? Oh, let it stay,  
We’ll echo dusk, both turned to gray.

Knees snapped backward,
forced into worship without choice.
Was it triumph, or was it hunger
that made you loom so big and tall?
Did you drink the pleasure
of frightening the small?
Monster black-furred tyrant
you thrashed the skyline
to clutch a young heart in your fist.
But even kings have rivals.
The lion wears a crown
dripping with other creatures’ blood.
The ram carries prophecy
etched deep in the bone of his skull.
The bull dreams with one eye open,
hooves stamping the earth into gold.
All rulers, beast or man
hold their toys
until the toys grow teeth.
And teeth, once born,
chew tomorrow into shape.
The mind alone
is the crown that lasts.

Love…
a powerful, complicated thing.
It lifts us. Shapes us.
And sometimes, quietly…
it breaks us.
It colours our days with joy,
gives meaning to our silence,
and turns the ordinary into something sacred.
But when it leaves
when love is absent
it doesn’t just fade.
It echoes.
We feel it in the cold space beside us,
in unanswered messages,
in glances that once lingered...
but now pass right through.
The lack of love
it’s not just loneliness.
It’s a weight.
A reminder of our need to be seen,
held,
understood.
So, we turn to words
to the poets, the broken hearted prophets,
to those who have tasted the silence
and made music of it.
They speak for us,
those who have felt unloved,
unappreciated,
or have struggled with the hardest kind of love
the one we owe ourselves.
“Love is the absence of judgment.”
Such a simple phrase,
yet it speaks volumes.
True love does not correct or condemn
it welcomes,
without a checklist.
And sometimes
it’s not the person we miss.
It’s how we felt beside them.
The way our laughter filled the room,
or how our soul exhaled in their presence.
We crave the feeling,
not the face.
Love is…
when you shed a tear,
and still want him.
When he ignores you,
and still… you love him.
When he chooses another
and you smile, and whisper,
“I’m happy for you,”
though your heart cracks with grace.
From the absence of intimacy,
a truth emerges:
We don’t seek perfection.
We seek presence.
Not fireworks
but a hand that stays.
And even in the deepest absence…
there is something that never leaves:
Hope.
That love true, fearless,
and whole
will return.
Until then,
we listen.
We feel.
We heal.
And we love
quietly,
bravely,
still.

The coins weigh thick, the spirit thins.  
Laughter’s light drowns sorrow’s din.  
A glimmered jest, a fleeting spark,  
Shadows stretch long, hearts go dark.  

The cost of joy, a gilded role,  
Fun, the pyrite of the soul.  
We barter light for moments sold,  
Heavy pockets, empty soul, no gold.

A rhythm stirs, a whispered plea,
When hands entwined with you and me.
He dances, swift and light and free,
A language spoken, wild and glee.

Uncommon words, a vibrant hue,
His movements paint a canvas new.
From sheltered arm, a gentle shove,
He lifts me high, to realms above.

A fluffy cloud, a soft embrace,
Where sunbeams fade, and shadows chase.
And then, the heavens weep in tears,
Black rain descends, dispelling fears.

Within my eyes, the torrent falls,
A cleansing shower, soothing calls.
He carries me, a fragile thing,
Where joy and sorrow softly sing.

Through swirling mists, and skies so vast,
He holds me close, a cherished cast.
A whispered promise, soft and low,
Where love resides, and shadows flow.

From birth, a woman dressed in dreams,
awaiting the man
whose touch would discover her hidden notebook,
whose fingers would wander her pages,
fondling each line with tender curiosity.

At last, love arrived
but only for a brief embrace:
not long enough to quench her hunger,
not enough to wipe the dust
from her waiting scroll.

Now the night holds her confessions,
her moans of longing folded into the dark,
her body whispering its ache
to the silence between the stars.

O night, will you grant me peace tonight,
or must I pray the sun never rises?

I picked her up on the roadside,
thumb out, smile easy.
“Where you headed?”
“To the end of this road,” she breathed.
Hop in.
By the time we’d finished talking,
that road ended at my hotel door.
She slid into the chair,
crossed her legs slow,
stirred my coffee like the spoon was trembling.
“Want some?” I asked.
Her lips tilted: “No, thank you.”
I sprawled on the bed,
TV humming shadows,
watching her instead of the screen.
Then she leaned close,
eyes glinting, voice low:
“So tell me
a **** girl stops you on the road,
follows you up to your room…
what do you think she wants?”
And me, fool that I am,
instead of pulling her in,
I laughed and said,
“Probably just to catch the weather report.”

How are you?
Still whispering to the night,
Still with that blue Chivas in your hand.
Nothing changed,
Same seat, same place.
But the lines on my face, yeah, they changed.
My heart though
still beating young.
My soul’s sitting here,
logging for the old dreams.
Come, have a glass with me,
you old man.

How on earth I end up with you
a question I bury in silence,
where answers decay.
How did I spend thirty-five minutes
trading my peace
for your poisoned lullaby?

How many times I should have left,
but stayed
each time a bruise
on the soul I pretend is whole.
Each moment,
a thread unraveling my name.

Deep purple sleep
where I float, numb,
ends nightmare.
Not with rest,
but with forgetting.

Thank God
for the wicked wake
the jolt, the break,
the moment truth
slices through the dream.
At last,
I breathe
alone.
Alive.

After our first date
takeaway by the river,
red wine staining her lips
she leaned in and said,
“Life is too short for boring dates.
Let’s make this one unforgettable.”
I followed her heat
straight to the next hotel,
where clothes fell like lies,
where her breath hit my skin
and her body begged mine raw.
We loved until the night was torn open,
until the walls sweated with us,
until nothing existed
but the burn of her thighs
and the ache of my hunger
buried inside her.
Morning was cruel,
coffee fast,
her eyes still wicked.
She pulled on her clothes,
kissed the air instead of my mouth,
and left me with the echo of her body
her goodbye sharp as teeth.

Red is the secret between us
the slow swell of lips,
the flush that betrays your longing
before your voice can speak.

It glows on your mouth,
smears on my skin,
a trace of hunger
that stains deeper than wine.

Red gathers where I touch you
******* tightening,
thighs trembling,
your *** darkening with heat.

Every drop, every blush,
every mark is a confession.
You write it on me with your body,
I read it with my tongue.

Red is not just seen
it is tasted,
it is swallowed,
it lingers between us
like breath,
like sin.

I am the breeze within your hair,  
The whispered song that says I care.  
The moonlit glow that steeps the night,  
A beacon sure, your guiding light.  

I am the roots that hold you fast,  
The fleeting days that turn too vast.  
In every shadow, every hue,  
I live within, alive in you.

I am her *******, humble, soft, worn thin,
A silent witness to her hidden life.
I’ve known her body’s secrets, close and deep,
A second skin, I clung to flesh and bone.
I have tasted her sins, the bitter proof,
Felt the deep tremor, held the quake of thighs,
A vessel for unspoken, urgent needs,
The silent echoes of a hurried touch.
I have worn scents of nights that would shame saints,
Of raw desires and whispers in the dark,
The heavy perfume of a world unseen.
Each stain a story, etched into my cloth.
Now, press me closely to your patient ear,
And I will speak what only I have known.
My fabric holds the truth, a living scroll.
No hidden part of her escapes my grasp.
I will name every man, each grasping hand,
Every woman too, whose waiting lips did part,
And the precise hour, when they broke her open,
To spill her secrets, whispered in the night.
I hold the ledger of her pleasure, pain,
The hidden history within my weave,
and the very hour when her heart opened wide.

The music soft, a gentle hum,
The morning light, just barely come.
Your cheek so warm, against my own,
A quiet peace, a seed is sown.

The music flows, a silver stream,
Reflecting dawn, a waking dream.
Your skin so close, a gentle touch,
Is this too much? I want so much.

The world outside can wait and see,
This perfect place, belongs to me.
The music plays, the sun climbs high,
With you beside me, I could fly.

My lord, pluck out my eyes, for I have seen,
A world of dazzling light, a cruel, bright sheen.
My ears, deaf now, to all the melodies,
For I have listened to the serpent's lies.

I've sinned, my lord, and loved the gilded lie,
And hated truth, with a contemptuous sigh.
A vision fair, a wonderment of sight,
Her song, a siren, stealing all my light.

She sings, and I, am captive to the sound,
My soul adrift, upon a treacherous ground.
Quoth I, a fool, entranced by her sweet grace,
Lost in her beauty, in her alluring space.

So, pluck my eyes, and seal my listening ear,
For in this world, I fear, I cannot steer.
From truth's embrace, my heart has turned away,
And now I crave the darkness, come what may.

I married for love,
and love has a price
not in gold,
not in coin,
but in patience,
in silence,
in sleepless nights.
In the slow surrender of self,
until the edges blur.

Yes, I married for love
not for comfort,
not for gain.
But love is no gift freely given;
it asks for everything.
Time.
Trust.
Sometimes, even your dreams.

Love is beautiful
but it leaves marks
where it’s been.

Yes, I married for love.
And no one warned me
how deeply love can wound
how much it takes,
how little it sometimes gives.

Still…
yes,
I paid the price.

To turn a blind eye to the hunger of the poor,
then raise for them luxurious temples
where they may kneel in complaint of hunger,
and whisper their prayers to poverty
on thresholds paved with gold.

In church, a quiet, hallowed space,
A moment spun, a gentle grace.
A woman bright, like morning's hue,
Met my gaze, a radiant view.

We left the stone, where shadows played,
And walked together, softly swayed,
To sunlit glade, where whispers bloom,
And whispered tales of life's perfume.

She asked, "How do you take your day?"
A question soft, in gentle sway.
With coffee strong, or tea so light,
A simple start, bathed in morning's might.

"A quiet pause," I softly said,
"Before the world begins to spread.
A moment's peace, before the fray,
To gather strength, in the light of day."

Her smile, a warmth that gently shone,
A mirrored grace, beneath the sun.
"A quiet heart," she softly sighed,
"A peaceful soul, where solace hides."

And in that hush, a bond was spun,
Two souls aligned, beneath the sun.
In church's peace, a love revealed,
A story whispered, to be revealed.

Inhale, beloved, inhale
the crystal pipe is a serpent’s throat,
its song coils in your lungs.
Inhale.
Spun is a secret name,
a name written on the ash of angels.
Inhale that name.
Inhale the mask they call sane,
and watch it fracture in your breath.
Inhale.
Let the calendar burn
forget the birthdate,
forget the ledger of the stars.
Inhale.
Unfasten the chain of purpose,
loosen the tongue of memory,
let your name fall silent
into the smoke.
Inhale.

I drink to forget
my keys,
my pain,
the clatter of bees in my head.
But the French cognac tastes of door handles
and old brass prayers.
Each swallow lights another hallway
in this crumbling hotel I call me.
Pain sharpens
not like a knife,
but like a mirror
with too many faces.
And then
cold metal teeth in my palm.
A familiar bite.
Yes.
Of course.
The keys.
They were conducting an orchestra
of forgotten errands
in the soft cage of my hand.
Stupid French cognac.
Stupid hand.
Always holding the answer
like a riddle too proud to speak.

The quiet heart is softly mended.  
A breeze whispers, the soul extended.  
Each moment bends, a gentle prayer.  
In stillness, I find answers there.  

Peace hums within the fleeting hours,  
A garden tucked with hidden flowers.  
No noise, no clamor, walls recede
Solitude fills the only need.

She came to me beneath a crescent moon,
her hair perfumed with night jasmine,
her eyes heavy with the knowledge
that I was born of spells and dark milk.
I laid her down on the silk of my shadow.
The stars leaned close,
each one a witness to my mother’s prophecy
that my touch would burn without flame.
Her breath caught in the hollow of my throat.
I kissed her as the desert drinks rain:
slow at first,
then with the hunger of a century without water.
The witch’s blood sang in me,
chanting words no priest would dare to hear.
Her body opened like a forbidden garden,
and I,
its serpent and its angel,
entered with reverence and ruin.
When she cried out,
the night shivered.
Owls turned their heads,
the wind held its breath,
and the moon closed one eye in envy.

In your soft curves, my faith takes hold,
A prayer breathed low, a tale retold.
Your breath, a hymn both calm and deep,
Sings my weary soul to sleep.
Your nearness stills the storming sea,
Unchains my heart, and sets it free.
My heart’s a garden—your bloom is there,
Dispelling shadows, winter’s snare.
Where your kind feet in silence tread,
The barren earth grows green instead.
This quiet prayer, ten times a day,
To you, my love, my heart will say.

Devil 👿

I met the devil.
She didn’t ask.
Just lit the pipe
and blew death into my lungs.

My veins caught fire.
My soul cracked open.
Everything changed.
Nothing mattered.

Time?
I spent it bleeding in heaven
and screaming in hell.

I fell into her arms like a drunk punch,
and crashed into a winter storm
naked, high, and laughing.

She was beautiful.
Ugly.
Perfect.
My sleep paralysis in flesh.

Yes
I ****** the devil.
She wore my guilt like perfume.

Ecstasy?
To you, it’s a word.
To me, it’s her body over mine,
nails in my back,
truth in her lies.

Yes
I slept with the devil 👿
And she never left.

I am her *******.
I have clung to her hips like a worshipper
and knelt in the dark between her thighs.
I have drunk her sweat
until the salt burned my threads,
and I have learned her rhythm
how she sighs before she sins.
I have been the altar for her midnight prayers,
the veil for the tremor of her flesh
when the moon pressed its cold kiss there.
I have swallowed the bite of his teeth,
tasted the copper of his hunger,
and carried the scent of nights
she will deny with her lips
but never with her body.
I am the silk that trembled
when her fingers shook,
the lace that remembers more
than her mouth will speak.
And if you dare press me to your ear,
I will tell you
how she laughed when she came,
how she wept when she wanted more,
and how I still ache for her skin.

I stopped loving on that day,
When I saw the wall that lay
Between the vows and love’s delight,
Locked in war by day and night.

Love arrives and the ring departs,
A wedding breaks the tender hearts.
A cruel exchange, a bitter trade,
A promise bent, a dream unmade.

I stopped loving when I learned
How joy is bought and trust is burned;
It gives, it takes, yet leaves you bare,
The gold is gone, the weight still there.

I stopped loving, for I knew
My sun and storm were theirs to choose.

A fragile thread, too weak, too thin,
To bind my heart, or hold me in.

Forgive the rough edge of my words
they were born in the heat of a breaking heart.
I don’t need you to tell me it’s done;
I’ve seen the cracks widening,
heard the silence growing louder than our laughter.
The fire has been dimming for a long while,
the touch between us turning to stone,
the moments of wild devotion
fading like old paint in the rain.
Now I wear the emptiness like a badge,
my hands remembering
what they can no longer hold,
my body locked in rust,
my soul aching for the ways you once
turned me into a living flame.
And I miss you
not only your mouth,
but the magic it spoke
in the language only lovers know.

The soul is heavy, a stone upon my chest,
I long to lay it down, to find a place of rest.

An old man drifts, with eyes like fading flame,
Seeking the shadows of dreams that bear no name.

He murmurs of bargains, made under moonlight,
Of stolen joys purchased with the soul’s own bright.
“This weight,” he says, “presses slow, presses low,
But it may vanish—if only you choose to go.”

He offers a peace, soft as a sigh,
Yet the price he asks cannot meet my eye.
Not gold, not gems that dazzle or blind,
But a treasure more secret, beyond time, unconfined.
A tale unspoken, a fire untold,
A spark eternal, that never grows old.

I Want to Stay Here
We went to see the Three Sisters
in the Blue Mountains
an iconic rock formation,
etched in stone by time
and by legend.
The old story tells:
three sisters turned to stone
to be saved from war,
frozen forever
by love and fear.
Nearby, where Norman Lindsay
dreamed his wild and wicked dreams,
the air still hums
with the laughter of ghosts,
and the soft madness of artists.
My grandchild,
with his small voice and wide heart,
was asked to come home.
He looked up and said,
"I want to stay here."
And my heart
my old, tired heart
heard him and answered too:
I want to stay here.
To feel the pleasures,
the madness,
the thrill
these mountains have lived and seen.
I wonder
how can a place bear so much
and still remain
green,
shining,
calm?
Yes.
I want to stay here too.

I said to her,
"I will betray you."

She smiled softly, like forgiveness,
but with devilish awareness
and whispered,
"Then let destruction be... beautiful."

I said,
"Teach me how do you fall?"

She said,
"Tango."

And we tangoed
like sinners in a church,
like wolves caressing silk that never sleeps.

A step... then a gasp.
A turn... then a scar.
Wound after wound,
until love forgot its name,
its features scattered between our feet.

And still, we danced
not out of love,
not out of regret,
but because the music never stopped.
Yet.

Not by rules or timelines,
not by others' silence or advice.
I will carry this grief as I must
slowly, fiercely, or quietly
but always in my own truth.

If I gave them sight,
they’d curse the gift,
find shadows in light.

Their hearts are sand
forever dry,
a grasping hand.

I wonder!

So I guard my gaze,
let lashes veil
a fragile maze,
where dignity can quietly prevail.

Death is nothing—no endless divide,
I’ve only strode to the other side.
I am still I, and you are still you;
Our love remains, unwavering, true.
Speak my name as you did before,
Soft and sure, as in days of yore.
No need for silence, tears, or guise
Let laughter rise, as in brighter skies.
Remember every shared delight,
The tender jokes, the sparks of light.
Sing my name, let it softly ring,
A living breath, an endless thing.
I linger near, not lost, not gone,
Just past the dawn, beyond the lawn.
No need to yearn—I’ll wait right here,
Until you round life’s bending sphere.
So smile, and dance, and let love show,
For though you cannot see me so,
Our bond still holds, our light won’t fade
I’m just around the bend, delayed.
Delayed.

The palm unfolds, a story told,
Of lines etched deep, a tale untold.
No woman fairer, grace divine,
Yet shadowed by a subtle sign.

A rose's scent, a phantom's plea,
Escapes your grasp, a mystery.
A book's embrace, a silent plea,
Unreadable, a void you see.

You, a... what word to capture you?
A paradox, both dark and true.
A beauty veiled, a hidden art,
A fragile bloom, a wounded heart.

The lines diverge, a shadowed maze,
Where hidden truths and sorrows blaze.
A whispered vow, a silent tear,
A destiny both near and clear.

Perhaps the fault lies not within,
But in the world's unyielding din.
A fragrance lost, a book unread,
A soul unseen, a truth unsaid.

Or is it you, with eyes so deep,
Whose gaze the world cannot keep?
A captive heart, a silent plea,
Awaiting someone, just for thee.

He:
You're asking me why I'm silent?
I don't know... maybe because there's nothing left worth talking about.
We've started living from a lack of death, not from a desire to live.

She:
It's as if we're waiting for something to end us...
But even the ending keeps getting delayed, and the scene gets longer.

He:
Do you remember how we used to feel the pain? How we used to scream and find relief?
Now even the pain has become cold... as if we're forbidden from enjoying it.

She:
Not even crying over it.
We've started to stifle the pain, stifle the scream, and stifle life...
But we don't die.

He:
It's harder than death... to keep living, while nothing in your lives.

**** Me With Your Beauty

Float your beauty,
your wild, aching sexiness
a storm in silk,
a sin wrapped in flesh.

**** me
with your pleasure,
with your wicked grace.
Burn me.
Don’t explain.
Don’t wait.

Just do it.
Undo me.
With what God gave you.

A glance,
a touch,
a breath that owns me.

**** me.
**** me
slowly,
completely
until I am nothing
but the echo
of your name.

Soft words fall like quiet rain,  
hearts bloom where hate has lain.  
Each syllable a golden thread,  
we weave light where darkness bled.  

Rich is he who speaks with care,  
sharing wealth that’s always rare.  
Kindness sown, the world will grow,  
a brighter path for all to know.

Kings Cross, where city lights ignite,
Once home to wild and painted dreams,
Now whispers songs through neon gleams,
A vibrant pulse in fading night.

Two paths divide the busy street:
One flashes bright with coins and fire,
A burning urge, a strong desire,
Where eager hurried footsteps meet.

The other, dim and hushed and low,
Where weary faces find their space,
To shed their burdens, slow their pace,
And let their heavier feelings go.

That quiet, second road I chose,
Away from glitter, loud and bold,
A different story to unfold,
Where inner stillness gently grows.

Then from the corner's deepest shade,
A whisper breathed my very name:
"Why did your spirit shun my claim?
Why did your heart become unswayed?"

My voice, a fragile, trembling sound,
Replied, "My Lord put a small light there.
No grand display, no worldly share,
That inner gleam helps me feel sound."

The shadow asked again, with sigh,
"Then tell me, why are you still here?"

I answered, "Just to make it clear,
To check my path against the sky."

The shadow wept, a gentle plea,
Then whispered soft, "You walk the truth,"
And vanished from my gaze, forsooth,
Leaving the quiet night to me.

Yet fear still tapped within my chest,
As I turned from that tempting lane,
And walked where peace begins again,
Towards a path of certain rest.

For those whose faith holds strong and true,
The gifts the Lord has given free,
Already calm the heart, you see,
For this brief life, fresh and new.

Knowledge is power
My grandmother and father told me,
Knowledge is power.
What a masterpiece of comedy that was.
I believed them, like a fool with a library card.
Now I’m stuck with a brain full
of useless wisdom and a heart full of regret.
Even the doctor said,
‘Sorry, we don’t treat chronic belief in motivational slogans.’
So yeah… hats off to me.
Clown of the century. 🤡📚🤣

Your hands compose an echoed hymn, a whisper sung in shadowed dim. No brittle notes, no fractured tune, just soft-sweet murmurs, worn in bloom.

Where silence thrives, your fingers speak, a fluent warmth, both strong and meek. Each brush unfurls a secret art, the quiet lexicon of heart.

I like my labneh
full-fat, whole-milk
heavy with promise,
soft as surrender.
Flaky sea salt
melts on its skin,
olive oil glistens
like desire in the sun.
A breath of za’atar,
a trace of mint,
a brush of thyme
and I am undone.
That’s how I like my lover
ripe,
reckless,
and impossible to leave.
Yummy…

To clench a thorn is quiet agony,  
Its sharp whisper burns endlessly near.  

The tighter the grasp, the deeper it cuts,  

Love’s echo fades when drowned in fear.  

Once released, the shadows lighten slow, The wound breathes soft, begins to mend.  

To lose the grip on what won't stay  
Is to find the start, not the end.

Wind whispers low, a gentle sigh,
Life's sailed away, I don't know why.

Love's faded hue, a ghost of red,
Dreams still bloom, though hope seems dead.

Closer than close, a hidden grace,
In lonely dark, I find my place.

Night's bitter sting, a cruel deceit,
I walk in quiet, my path to meet.

Wound walks with me, a constant friend,
Pride's strong red will never end.

Your dear one is like a lost hunter
blind to direction, unsure of his prey.
Content, it seems, to stir up chaos,
spreading trouble near and far.
I already see where this story leads.
All I can do is stay grounded.
But he’s not hunting to survive
he’s hunting to ****.
And he doesn’t care
who gets hurt along the way.
God, please
don’t let him find my way.

"Love, in its truest form, is resilient
but even the strongest bond unravels
under the weight of three corrosive forces:
the habit of error,
the comfort of falsehood,
and the absence of understanding.
For it is not anger that ends love,
but the slow erosion of trust, truth, and empathy."

Come closer
my father once told me
that between my *******,
between my lips,
between my thighs,
lies a power without mercy.
I have learned to wield it like a blade.
My mind is the theatre,
my thoughts the stage where you are both
the hero and the sacrifice.
I will not simply kiss you
I will bind you,
thread your breath through mine
until you cannot remember
where you end and I begin.
I will lead you by the hand into velvet darkness,
make you believe it is safety,
then whisper the truth in your last moment of doubt:
I am the enchantress they warned you about,
the poison they served in a crystal glass.
They call me femme fatale,
but I am older than the name,
more ancient than fear.
I do not ****
I make you walk willingly
into your own beautiful ruin.
I blow a kiss, goodbye.

I do not know if I’m sleeping or dreaming,
If I’m dead, or barely breathing.
Maybe I’m trapped in a nightmare,
Fighting pain carved deep in bone and air.
I wait to wake
To find rest,
To find peace,
To feel less.
Or maybe this is that rest,
And rest is just this numb unrest.
I do not ******* know
Where I am,
Who I am,
What this is.
Maybe I’m asleep
Or maybe
I’m in ******* hell,
And this is not a dream.