Drain the remaining passion
from my ever-flowing veins
ensuring I can only feel
through the faulty nerves
trembling below your flush skin.
Syphoning undeserved affection
in the harshest conditions,
I am a walking sickness
plagued with the mental violence
one can only transmit
through the antithesis
of a sacred Midas touch.
Mistaking vulture wings
for those of the most glowing angel,
I am condemned to clean the wounds
from talons that graced my spine
with the deepest cuts.
Contorted, bent over backwards,
I guide tired eyes over the incisions.
Bare flesh in each opening
reflects my inverted visage,
a monument for every misfortune I've allowed.