She has me howling-
screaming to be awake.
Like sex, like seduction.
Addicted to the hating.
Addicted to the dying.
Addicted to the taste of blood on my lips-
The touch of nothing upon the velvet of my earlobes.
The sound of silk ripping around my bruised fingertips
She has me moaning, gasping.
Encased in pleasure.
Suicide without the guilt of leaving-
Without the guilt of making anyone sad but me.
She cannot hear you over the silence-
“Nothing” is amplified;
bursting her eardrums.
Even airbrushed, she was beautifully flawed-
Like sea glass in a rip.
Like your voice when it shakes.
Perhaps I’m the genetic anomaly
and you’re the selective advantage?
Her existence prevents the killing–
as my death would only populate her.
So how do I stop her,
when even my destruction can’t?
Loving people hurts them,
as does the not loving them.
Which can my masescist handle,
if she’s a product of self doubt & blame?
Which alley do I walk,
if I’m scared to do nothing and everything?
Nothing is a being too-
so even mute,
my invisible hands deliver cuts and scars
made of unintentional intent.
Her morning whispers hello,
her night screams goodbye.
She can’t hear midday.