For When The World Stops Ending

I promise I’ll tell you

(out loud, this time)

How much I want to

Rake my nails down your back.

Carve you into the shape of Love

made just for me, by me.

You’d be a product of my own despair,

paring you down to be my delight

We’d make such a great pair

You and I,

Artists of our own demise.

Quiet (oh so quiet!) about our desires.

Maybe if I pressed hard enough

into your skin

it would splinter

And the truth

would spill forth

Like the lies you tell

to keep me awake

And blood would

write bright red volumes of

romance

And without a word

I would make another promise

To press my lips and seal the wound

And then I’d throw you away, and go back to sleep.