You smell like spring
You look like heaven
You speak like angels sing
You're such a blessing...

I wish for the temporary love
Where it only last a night
The pleasure passes time
much better than thinking of him
My mistake
They are like cuts the saliva of the stranger's kiss could heal
or just soothe for a night
as they kiss my neck, my shoulder, the outline of my body
Only to wake up in the morning thinking of him

The pain will soon turn me to a monster
  
    As it devoured me, I shall devour you.

I was once a classically trained pianist:

My nails cut weekly down to the bit
and internal tongue ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-tee-tee
ta-ta, tom tuned to the metronome.

Daily hours meant:
bent stick straight up
scales and etudes then
sonatas and scherzos and waltzes and nocturnes and preludes and arias

and movements memorized
by fingers that knew the way
and weight of adjusted arms.

What is the value of
a wrong note alone

or amongst many,

of memory incapable
and fingers fallible?