so i thought i'd write you
a seven word love letter,
straight from the heart.
you can even see the
bloody, gaping, hole
where it was ripped out,
and the stab wound too.
so then i go to thinking, maybe
i'd just tell you how i feel in
seven line intervals of our love
of lies, and our joy of tears. the
three part love of sad things and
satanic rituals, never really that
sad and satanic at all, darling.
but then the lines kept growing
longer, and the words kept getting
heavier, and the thoughts just
couldn't stop spinning up and out.
so maybe when (if)i'm finally done
my seven lines of sobbing, could
you shoot me again darling, please.
AN: My birthday piece, you could say. (Three stanzas, seven lines each/March 7)