Your eyes,
taunting me-
I wish to pluck them out,
devouring them.
as you have,
my soul.
Bronze skin,
I will peel away,
my spirit, devoured.
Bathe,
I will,
in dripping intestines-
you’ve bathed, in my tears.
Your breath,
I would steal,
You have my heart,
would it be wrong?
The wounds I bear,
no different-
truly,
than those.
Yet,
I
hear the gavel-
noose tightening,
engulfing me-
in darkness,
to the sound,
of your echoing,
laughter.
Four-Calendar Café 