The heavens mourned
   in my stead love.

They railed and rent
   themselves through,
   in the deep knell of the thunder,
   and the flashing light of the lightning
   as it struck in all its fiery promise.

The gods themselves
   wept my tears, my love.

Rivers upon rivers
  from those fickle immortals,
  for where they are,
  they were moved.

Because I mourned you
   my love,
I mourned you.
I mourned you,
  so deep.

But I was too far
  from my eyes to weep.
Cut off from my arms
  that I could not tear my
  clothes.
Closed off from my throat
  so the world would never
  hear the banshee in my wail.

For as my body mourned,
My soul sought you.
It reached out ,
  to Hades Realms
  if that was where you went.

It asked
   why would you leave us here?
   this body of mine and
   it's soul.

So I could not weep
   and I could not wail.

And so the heavens,
   they mourned for me.

and no matter how much i tell myself that i will never be anything to you but a hole to ****, as i twist my head back to look at you, your eyes closed with bliss, the space between your eyes wrinkled, and your lips stuttering with harsh grunts with every ****** of your body in me,
a whine escapes my mouth,
and almost carelessly, as if it cost you nothing at all,
you reach down down down;
mercy comes in the form of your tongue on my lips, and like a parched traveler, i drink from your mouth
as if it were an oasis in this ****** wasteland

i hate writing
i hate the whole process of having to destroy and to rebuild myself
i hate the way some words just won't flow right; the ideas are there, the heart and the soul, but not the words, god, not the words
i hate the way my muse keeps me up on completely inconvenient times, three in the morning, or two in the afternoon
i hate the way i have to bleed across the page to make something i can barely call good
god, i ******* hate writing

and you dare stand up from the sheets where our body fluids have mixed and dried, wordlessly dressing yourself up and leaving the echo of the door closing in your wake and just you ******* wait i'm going to lace your tea with poison, and oh, isn't it just unfortunate that your house has this terribly long staircase and your wife just always had to wear frighteningly high heels?

but then again, you'd like that, wouldn't you? you at my mercy just like a few hours ago when i pinned your wrists above your head and your pelvis under the curve of my ****, painfully teasing you with the slow drag of my hips, impaling myself on you, raising myself up so so slowly until only the head of your **** catches on the lips of my entrance and i slam myself back on you, as you gasp and gasp and gasp, begging for release, for mercy, like the pathetic lover you are with your cries spurring me on, the trembles of your body betraying you, betraying your wife, but never betraying me because you know, ******* you, you know, deep inside, that you are mine—you are mine and i will never let you go

choke me*, you gasp in the blinding heat of your embrace
his movements falter but return with more vigour, as if such a thing was possible
you guide his hands to your neck as if guiding a child lost in his path;
and yes, maybe you both are still children
trying to find ways to survive in each other
his nails dig into your pulse, into your airways
and never have you been more intimate
he is inside you,
wholly,
completely
within the cages of your ribs
and your lungs try to gasp for air
but it really doesn't change anything much
(you've been breathless around him for quite awhile, after all)
you still seek for his lips,
his tongue in your mouth;
you want to **** everything from him
into you
until you both become too entangled
and neither of you could be distinguished from the other

your moans stamped themselves on my skin,
but your laughter ripped my ribs apart and kissed this broken heart

you've always believed in two things religiously:
1) if you want something, you have to pull your hair back, grit your teeth, and work for it.
2) stopping from improving is regressing.

tonight, i realise that it was never about winning.
never about getting that medal or that spot on the stage.
it was silly of me to think that you just wanted my blood on your hands.
starving for recognition from your blood family, you were in a completely different competition than i was.

we carried corpses on our bruised shoulders.
they pushed against our broken backs; our swollen knees trying to keep our bodies upright.
you once told me i had a face that was good for punching,
and, oh god, i'd have had let you if it meant your hands on my skin.

in the end, what's left was this:
a single note in a cacophony of screams.

you are dead.
you are dead.
you are dead.

maybe if i keep repeating it to myself, i'd start believing it.

and yet it's far too late for impulsive declarations of love.
too late for so many things.

(but some days, i like thinking of you, thinking of me.)