You want me for dead,
you eccentric aroma of lillies blended with morning dew.
Hold me responsible for the breakdown of the souls already disintegrated.
Beautiful boy, you scold me for cutting the flesh of the abandoned.
Beautiful boy, you make me weep everytime you touch my white skin embedded with scars and blemishes.
They show.
They show weak androgynous psychosis,
an empty vessel floating with arms and legs.
You wake me with the stench of cigarettes and bleeding butterflies.
You, now smiling, yet faceless, with your theories of love and lust.
But these are flavourless letters,
insipid godlike words that make absolutely nothing of who you are.
I am showered with memories of corruption.
memories of movement of the entire body, fast and tremendously damaging to the self.
Like symphonies of broken violins and distorted cellos.
Like a twisted Mozart.
Why must I still want to be blinded by you,
you mortal of visible veins,
you odd creation holding carcasses in winter?
Why must I still want to lay my head upon you,
you human wishing to be Zeus,
still susceptible to mutilation and disfigurement?
