poor things heart

there is a beast

who tells me his name is anger

we could both make a feast

i’ll blame all your teeth

he doesn’t tell me anything else

i’m left to do that myself

im not afraid of his hot breath

im not afraid of the fangs that hang there

what does this mean?

why am i unclean?

what have i seen, what have i seen?

can you take it all back?

why did you give it to me?

give the plague back to the rats

unfeed it

un seed it

seeing is believing

can’t force it

breeds eagerness

breeds malcontent

Machiavellian, morose consent

forced, bred, the whispers

were counterfeit

strung up from the bathroom light

doesn’t work anymore

didn’t fight

was he ever clean?

did it mind, the bleed?

does it carry on still

or is it just me?

stuck on the sill?

washing cycle, i am not ill

strung up on the lawn

i could be ill

wet dewy grass

slick, sweat, angry not content

pressed on the glass

that made me ill

motion sickness from the sweet kill

consent, claymation, consent, created

moulded for egotistical entertainment

made malleable, inviolable

ugly breeding from the containment

why is she not ill?

don’t they bear rotting kills?

sweet enough to shake the chills?

why is it my heart that never stills?

don’t mind the fangs that hang from there

but the smell of

lying in the air

the smell of

ugly red skin

the taste of the word

sin.

skin, skin, inside my skin

sin, sin.

susceptible to

strange sabotage

coming from within

sickness doesn’t feed me

he was always beneath me

pitter patter, madder at her

down the sill of shame

washes me out again

first murderer of mankind

plunged the knife in twice

paints over red, blind

to the pain regurgitated inside

was it a sin to avert the eye?

was it thin, so thin

the line

did you cross it a thousand times?

did you write down the crimes?

could you admit one?

but don’t admit why you lied

i could tame the sickness,

kisses from a syringe would be kind

if i would i could

if my blood splatters the wood

could it paint me as the sun?

warm, yellow, mellow as a punch

paint me yellow, paint me well

make me well

weather- worn

i could be made well

just well, again, well

black porcelain, ragged Anne, old friend

stitches singing break your hands

you were never, never a man

a man knows what’s a punching bag

a man knows what’s a punching bag

you are not, could not be a man

builds castles from sin

died for nothing

killed your own kin

believed like a man

died according to plan

died like abel

to teach men dead tales

don’t eat some poor things heart

it will make your lovers fatal

don’t eat the poor fucker’s heart

it will turn fatal