Dear Lover,
I came last night, your name
far from my tongue,
you weren’t there, and I wasn’t thinking of you,
with the flames you spit and the blood you drew,
a komodo dragon making breakfast of your young.
Lover, your name is a broken bell
flooding my bed with acidic tides.
I always begged you to stay here by my side,
but you packed up my basket and sent me to hell.
A composer without a song or pen,
you buried yourself inside my inkwell heart,
wrote bullshit I’d never call art.
and I was your Slutty Sanctuary and Sin.
I came last night, his name in a shout,
never thinking of how you stomped me out.