my love is desperate consumption of anything im not
i can only ever crave hankering separation
(the farthest away from my own sinful hand)
and abhor all that easily falls into my shameless claws
i swallow my desire and digest it long enough it turns into something carrying an all too familiar ugliness
(i stare into the abyss and in the abyss i see you tire)
everything i love i stain with my own repulsing vacancy,
mercilessly shape it into a cage befitting my prodigal heart
fill it with the same insatiable appetite that snarls and howls knowing no decency
my love is not creation but its own twisted pretense being picked apart
loving is god creating his own specular image of worship
looking at it with both resentful revulsion and unspeakable lust
and i, just like a god, can never love anything made of my rib