Somewhere between the points
of your smile—reaching ear to ear,
hides a coffin for a shallow grave man—
that you as a master of poker,
hides a dagger in your sleeves.
I pricked my fingers with every thorn
of the rose you gave to me,
and I know I should lie down
as if I’m a cold corpse to rot
down under a garden filled
with your perfume.
I slept…
I slept…
and slept…
and slept…
My body is paralyzed
and it could not feel anything
from the wounds you are carving to my skin;
I cannot even smell the rust imprinted on my blood.
My eyes blackened out;
my lips are dead pan pale;
and my skin has been long withering
just because it misses the regular
brush of your own skin.
My ears have far too long became
an empty cave, which used to be
a house for the echo of your name.
I have been long dead,
but you made me feel new
and now you shattered me
back to a useless cadaver
I was just your experiment after all…
When the hospital room is empty
on a six o’clock cold evening
and you happened to be there by my side,
I want you to ***** me one last time
with a needle, or with your dagger,
wound me once more and make me feel the most.
And if my heart does not beat
for another pound, I have only one wish:
In a bright Sunday burn dusk,
I want you to prepare a wake for me,
so that I may feel to be alive
one last time.