He was perfection

with stethoscope eyes

and scalpel teeth which were

covered with lies.

They were beautiful when he smiled;

a love-bite turned violent.

He made the incision,

promised salvation;

blood, babies, bright lights

and education

that never came and never will.

Now I never will.

Thus I was created

from that which I hate

into flesh I am bound to loathe,

my ironic fate.

I cannot be saved.

I cannot be cured of this.

So I met a woman

who wanted to die,

gift-wrapped for the coffin.

I asked her, “but why?”

She did not reply,

just offered with dark eyes.

Offered that which I covet;

her taught canvas skin,

her perfect bones

her beckoning blue veins

her hips which I had transposed over mine

So many times.

So many times.

No longer elusive,

they were not forbidden.

They should have been,

kept veiled and hidden.

She cannot be saved.

I cannot be cured of this.

I donned my white coat,

learnt the flavour of a collarbone

she blinked her wet eyes,

got high, and went home.

Bedclothes, blood, ink and ivory.

She tastes of all four.

I cannot be cured,

for the hatred I can forget

but it is the impossible

to disown my own silhouette.

I cannot be cured of this.

It is impossible to renounce the body.