You're little more than a child.
Don't look at me like that; you are defiled.
What prompts me to slaughter lovers as I do?
First eager, then repulsed by you?

Imprints leave their mark on me:
Shape of your mouth- fades, eventually.
Shape of your hands. Fingerprints, discreetly.
Port, outlined in blackberry.

For though we sate ourselves and lie Under a yellowed ceiling sky And claim that there is no one else And toast our health In sweat:

I'm full of words I'll never mean You're marred with stains I'll never clean And we don't have to get up Just yet.