She was a razor
a transmission
a delicious purloined proscription
An upper
a roofie
I want a cup
of her ashes
in my pocket
She was a legend
a messiah
a golden lover
and a silver pariah
When I think
of all the faces I carved
into the soft surface
of my desire
I cannot decide
if it was her claws
or her prose
that made me ****
back my saliva
Even if she were to die tommorrow
she would always be
the soul survivor.