Your body,
on my body.
I felt your breath,
lightly and deeply,
against my neck.
You're lips,
touched my neck.
Satisfaction.

I am filth embodied,
spending my time
communing with mold and cockroaches,
spending my time
sitting in filth
because filth is home.

I do not feel *****
I feel just fine.
There's month old dishes in the shower,
rot in the fridge,
toenails on the table.
And it is home.

Filth is not good or bad.
Love is not ***** or pure,
it is two naked figures in front of a grimy mirror
marveling at their comfort.

I remember the scarlet taste
from biting my lips.
I remember the salty water,
that my eyes had dripped.
I remember the silent screams,
that had rang in my head.
But most of all, I remember
all those desperate words I never said.