a black mass
grows at the base of my spine,
venom dancing along the vertebrates,
spreading to my brain,
rotting the pink ***** into a pile of mush
held together
by the glued fusion
of my skull.

swallow my hate like a thick, vile tonic
that slides down the throat,
slowly killing you from the inside out.
love is much too tender a
thing for my hollow
walnut shell heart.
and i, i am not tender enough for it.
i am made for far ruder,
rougher things.

i can never be a saint
for saints never burn as i do.
in the depths of my despair,
strike the anvil of my blood
and hear me scream.