You wonder if I think of you
every night,
when colors disappear,
when my eye turns dark and clear
and my bones hang to cold truths.
I think, this time,
that I should make it clear,
as some kind of meteor
if you prefer, as a terror
a bang from the oven door.
I think of
You, with razors’ blades.
I think of
You, missing me.
I think of
You, fucked up.
I want
my heart dangling
from your every pore.
I want an endless winter
to coagulate your core.
And that, before
your doomed future explodes.
That, before
your tender faith is gone.
Nothing more.
Honesty unrolled.
Like a strip
of cotton.
But what good to you
is the ruby-red picture of obsession
called love?
What good to you is this old record
played by a twin lover ?
A piss-stained shawl
on your pretty shoulders.
A multi-coloured pill
on your velvet tongue.
That’s why, for your sake,
rather than these,
I’d prefer
now
the frozen axe of sanity.
That deep blue ink
that is nowhere
and is nothing
but the transparent sky.
That indelible milk
that is all we see
of the clouds.
I’d prefer
my trance to be gone.
I’d prefer
to be disowned.
In brief,
I would gladly kill myself.
I think of
me with razors’ blades.
I think of
dancing out of my skin.
I think of
pleading against myself
and sentencing
my love to death.
And when I’ll see
my blood on the blade,
I want
to feel your pulse
in my chest.
I want
my nerves to stick
to your skull.
I want
my hunger for you
to turn
into your hunger.
As I start
to fall
and fall
like the skin of a snake,
ceremoniously
falls
and falls
off.

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