Apologies in a Defeated Man's Voice, Not My Own

So I took my own virginity,
placing burnt and blackened hands between my thighs
including a sculpting method that uses shards of glass.
For I punched the abyssal rift where forbidden memories laid dormant,
sleeping as if they'd never brought catastrophe to romance,
and shattered a reflection into morbid pieces of a laughing, dead man,
who was lying in bed with skeletons of other men wrapped in wilted white roses.

I reach out to touch your shadow as it phases in and out of reality
passing through holes in the pictures on my wall;
penetrating my soul with a bitter taste of sardonic humor
your heart seems to take joy in making a stand-up comedy act of.

Under a blue moon,
that drifted upon a starless sky and illuminated misery
your chest close against mine and our heartbeats pulsating
that cliche acoustic song strummed by angels with broken halos.
And I would have let my lips put the moon to shame,
by tasting your body that resembles naught but ghostly, haunting beauty.

There will be a time
when you cry my name
as he touches you,
in your bed of roses.

But tears will only briefly stain your scarlet face with empathy;
never a gentleman that saw women as portraits of objectification,
rather a silhouette receding into a mother's tearful eyes,
and ...
will you join me in these autumn skies,
or gently inhale my last breaths from occassionally hollow lungs,
and stroke the wind with basilisk tongues?
I will be paralyzed.

Here in the eye of horizons,
cascading a passing TREND and using it as a metaphor for me;
this FAD will bring the end of an alternate world.
In my fingernails is nothing but photographs of necrophillia,
a film; biography of being home alone,
even when you don't speak to me my veins vibrate with an angry tone.

Sorry.