Bullet holes above your bed. Digital pheromones shoved down your throat by some other lover wishing to have you silenced at whatever cost. The shape of your breasts from side on; they make me choke, and they put me in a rage that knows no end. Unions of metal carved into your milky skin. Tattoos to cover the scent of self-disgust so prevalent as night makes way for paralysis. A decent fuck. Redundant in memory the same as your favourite sound. Going into shock as you realise how low you’ve become when once you sailed through clouds of perfect spheres. Placed high on a pedestal, now covered with rubble on a stretch of wasteland you walked through as a child. Autumn leaves once gave you meaning; now they rest upon your empty head as the poet decides where to tread next. Love is crucial, and that’s why it can wait. If it doesn’t tear you inside out, then it’s not love. If it doesn’t make you howl with madness, then it’s not what you think it is. Love dances with death; it plays a dangerous game that goes far beyond what the rest of them understand. Taking a bath while fully clothed as the rain pisses down outside. Walking for miles along the streets you played on as a child wishing as hard as you can for the magic to return. Sleep in coils of dreams, and place your hands hard around her neck to silence her constant sense of shame. Piss on the cure, and piss on your piss pathetic vision of what a life should look like. All those heinous faces, those gruesome, false smiles and bodies that ignite only animal instinct. Aim higher. Aim for the stars, and leave behind absolutely everything that doesn’t make your soul speak words of glorious, infinite contempt.

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