It is your joy I wear as my own veil of pain.

You the siren keep calling me back to grief and violence.

 My blood and bruises are an expression.

          love makes a fool of us all in time.

 I cannot take from you what you took from me.

 My brain tricked my heart into believing it was strong and could endure and overcome, but that’s not true, all that remains now is the violence turned in on myself.

No longer the rope and knives used together in love, now they are the punisher’s gift visited from my own black, dead heart.

 

Despite this I keep searching for a beauty, a beauty now disappeared.

 

 

a beauty that was never there.

 

The only thing queer here was that I believed, I was tricked.

 

I craved the flowers.

 

 

 

My minds been formed into a dope sex club, a dope sex club from which there is no escape,  the only respite is to put on my best black and swallow the pills and let the vodka spill over my chin and down my neck to be licked and sucked as I swing against restraints tight and creaking against my own weight and despair and my hearts only hope is that the flowers I so craved and still crave will be laid on my grave one day not too distant.