Your lips
Were the first thing I noticed
Gently parted
Breathing in and out

Oh to be your words
Conceived within your mind
Born upon your lips

Poetry.

Your lips are ******* poetry.

A wound on her left breast
Reminded her where he’d been
Of the damage his lips had wrought
With violent kisses and honeyed words

This gift he’d imparted
Subsequent lovers caressed, unaware
The dark circle above her heart
Festered, and would not heal

I asked you to bite me, and you did
Long and hard, leaving tiny little
Purple teeth marks

Warm bodies and hot blood tide us over
I'm beginning to realise, this state's permanence
And how we can still go on

I asked you to bite me,
Sink your teeth, drink up.

I want you to hurt me,
Now. Rip me apart,
So that there's no chance.

But, I'm afraid,
Even pain subsides
Into numbness these days

Many would say
That I'm a fool
If I laid awake at night
And only thought of you

But what if these thoughts
Were not of love
And they were hate filled and murderous
Precisely planned, with a fitting glove

Would it be a waste
To plan such a thing
When it would take you away
Along with my pain and grief

So as I think of you now
The feelings come even stronger
I've seen the way it unfolds
And for you, it won't be much longer

I woke with a sleepy start to find the devil standing over my bed.
I screamed in alarm and punched that ******* in the head.

He frowned then said he was feeing lonely
with a sad little shrug
So I laughed and gave him a big bear hug.

Then God sent me to hell for being nice

0_0

I do not want to speak of death
or time's unyielding sting.

I do not want a wasted breath
on such a pointless thing.

Right now I see no greater sin
than making passion dead.



So let me breathe your fragrant skin...
Come, crawl inside my bed.

I tried to
write
a poem about you
but instead
I scribbled a
big, orange-ink blob
and I figured
that made
just as much sense.

Parasitic queen dressed in gold and black,
we made love among hyacinth
tracts and the morning dew
then parted.

I’d thought it through but
venom proved stronger than
my ire as
memories of you wormed about;
your racing touch and
erasing much to finally burst
my head.

The larval feelings spun
themselves up in
little white silk
lies
And what wiggles out,
though formed and fed
off my mind and husk,
Resembles you, winged
and rue
hungry for a meal anew.

I could hear my parents talking about me.
I don't like that.
I don't like the way you looked so
disappointed
when I cried, either
or that I cry
or that my stomach bunched into ruffles
when you took my shirt off.

"I don't know why I get so sad sometimes," I whispered.