Scars of the heart from the first violence of love
Image of my lover: ravaged and violated
murderous. equally afraid for both of our lives
We hated ourselves but then so trusting
Her eyes never looked at me with tears–
but I have witnessed her despair,
quiet bellows of agony from the guts of a wounded soldier:
The fundamental shame of being a spectator;
I’m peeking at her scarred heart.
How beautiful. The sinister attraction.
I loved them as I loved you: with exclamation
What are we together again?
This. The disturbing closeness of half naked bodies
I had the privilege to hear her play violin infront of me
She was strikingly alike her music. Sad from being out of tune
My love is banished. Shame and pride.
She was murdered by herself and I’ve watched her closely
Hence, the spectator of this heinous crime; an accomplice
This unspoken night. Jesus.
Look how she spilled her cold blood. Artless.
Now I’m burying her, lover born 1994 of June.
Will chrysanthemums grow out of your grave?
You are distant and the night roamed with the
fragrance of death
Put the pen down. This is what we deserve.