Still

Cold, but the carpet
is so comfortable. Curled up
unsheilded, fetal if not dead,
numb in either case, floundered,
you found me, lifted me,
I asked you to hit me.

What is love?
A reality staycation,
heated beneath inflammation.

My head fell apart,
desecrated, the pieces abound
about your feet and you asked me
"What caused your infatuation?"
and I answered,
"Love exists in the curse of
immortality, infinity, implict maybe,
perhaps faded, but it is forever."

I hope I die tonight.

Now, don't speak, I've not asked for
sympathy. I'll not call your name,
just smoke this cigarette and
tell you that it hurts me.
I've given you a decision, darling,
and I ask you elect abuse.
Love hits hardest in the shape of
knuckles.