be gone from me,
demon—
but you already are;
you have always been.
your eyes, in mine,
are dissipating mists;
your lips, a foreign delicacy
i sampled long ago.
i opened my eyes
to realize
that i never held,
or even beheld, your heart.
instead, within me festers
a deep, black lack
of pure faith in you.
forget not the web of shadows
that suffocates my heart.
it is not my cross to bear
but your demon to slay.
what perfect pictures
of your imperfection.
of her head
tucked into the curve between
your throat and shoulder
that was mine.
in them
in moments you claim were cold,
she is the focus of your art
and you grin.
these pictures, frozen
after the one
which burns me so . . .
her lips laugh,
drunkenly,
and you were drunk on their poison.
knowing that your tongue—
vile pirate—
plundered them
curls mine into a scowl.
young sir,
you are not without remorse
but without faith,
and i am not without compassion,
but i have lost faith.
to her, with your smile, your kiss
or to me
with your palatable words—
to which of us
did your lips form lies?
your lips
wax such poetic
as you touch them to my skin.
could they not,
my eyes would not be frozen,
captivated by their slight movements,
entangled in the sticky webs you spin.
your eyes like fireflies,
your fingers snaking through my hair,
you draw me in
break my smile
with your curious tongue
turn my lungs to ice,
my knees to mud,
my eyelids to stone.