We are more than this.
The evidence?
Those many memories,
for example, this:

The never-ending date
in which at about 7:30 A.M.
your legs opened
like I was returning
to the eternity of death
through your gate-of-life
warm
soft
and wet
crying for invasion.

I knew there was no escaping you.

I was your first,
but more importantly,
I want to be your last.

This vicious circle
once again
spins so fast
the friction
sets my hands on fire.

Silk
wrists-ties
still cut when
pulled tight enough.

Chest heaving
into your arched back
cheeks pulled wide
your *** shines red.

Give me succor
Fill my heart
Let me pray here
where

the only thing more bald
than my tongue
is the *****
it caresses.

Just words
a never-ending tirade
harangue me from the tree
of my
mind.
But sometimes I wonder...
stingy with my attention
sterile in my affection
broken and treading and
sparing my dissension.
And I think suicide is a way out
And I hate this ******* life
And love is a black hole
But none of this means anything
After all, it's
just words.

Consumed consummation,
rotating indecision.
Feral and harrowed
and narrowed precision.

(You've seen this movie before)

My stomach is full
dessicated butterfly bodies,
drowned in the acid
of my stomach.

(It's always the same story)

I will gargle glistening aspic,
purge until I bleed out.
But the only way I'm leaving
is with you, beyond all doubt.

(...what if this time's different?)