Mould has grown in the places you used to touch .

Darling what a terrible thing that is.

I was once a rose with so many thorns but have turned into nothing but a fungus , a ****  , nothing but a disaster.

You came to me with your edges so sharp willing to cut off my petals if things got too much .

I let you in and moulded myself around you , my vines intertwined with your limbs trying to make us one.

You never liked the felling of another pressed against you , never quite understood how one could stay in the same place for such a length of time without wanting to expand further and Interrupt another's path.

What you didn't know was I gave you everything , I shed my petals to give you a bed of roses , but it seemed my path wasn't good enough nor my petals bright enough or even my vines intertwined with your limbs enough to make you stay.

So I sit here , as my body withers with nothing but a fungus to keep me warm , I intertwine my body with the mould given and hope that one day you will come back , with your edges not so sharp and sinful and tell me how bright my petals were and how sorry you are for making me nothing more than a notch in your bedpost.

Touch awake the
disturbing
nights.

Her outgrown,
innocent
masquerade:






                   faded.

the cool fire
burning in those
blue eyes
is all consuming,
setting aflame
everything in which
you cast your
gaze upon.

Hold my shaking hands
Steady, so I can
Write your name a thousandth time
In paint in temple walls
In scars on my chest
In the sky in smoke
And can't you?

Hearts lodged in throats
And pills hidden under tongues
Every move desperate, all wounds mortal
Stars fall from dilated eyes
Wake to dream again
Of empty embraces and loaded guns
And wouldn't you?

Swallow it down
The burning taste of copper
And pulpy chunks of shattered teeth
Breathe deep the air of home
Stale sage and dollar-stamped cigarettes
And you
Of course I will

Flimsy hands honor our night.

Rusty,
aged,
perfectly insistent.

Circumstances
kissed his voice.

Leave what you promised.

You are the razor's glistening edge.
Slits across fingertips.
Yes, there will be bloodshed.
Blood from tips to wrists dripping and spilling from my veins.
It is not poetic.
So I'll clean up my own mess.
No nerves left to damage with the memory of you hardened, turned to stone,
stored in nails and soft hairs.
Locked away. No key in sight.
I have tried to unfurl these fists,
only to fumble around with the essence, the innocence, of lovers after.
These hands are cracked, wrinkled,
disintegrating.
Their untold stories turned to dust.
My palms no longer hold signs of a future.
They can do nothing.
Paralyzed by your pride.
Paralyzed by your edge.
Glistening.
A razor's edge.

You are not perfect, darling.
Far from it, actually.
Your aura is lined with jagged edges.

I know it.
You know it.
God knows it.

But that is what makes us so extraordinary.
Your jagged edges expertly fill my empty spaces.

No one is formulated quite like you.
Never has there been.
Never will there be.

You are you, made imperfectly just for me.

I know it.
You know it.
God knows it.

Tainted havoc ensue
from our imminent destruction.

We befoul each other's affinity
with the ruin of our past lives.

Together we spoil, destroy, and infect the air that devours us.

Coexisting is not an option
between

You,

Me,

and

Sympathy.