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)