Your poisonous breathe no longer lingers
on the waiting air. Insignificant words,
wonderful nothings, don't worm their way
into my dreams.
My stiffened arms relax, falling
by my side. My body hair regrows and
my razor sits still: I rejoice in
this masculinity, its low voice calls out to something deep
inside me. Primal.
I offered you an apple
and you stole two, stealing away my good
intentions. I've searched for those two
rotting cores far and wide. I searched
amongst the roots of a Willow, waded through
the filthy, bloody water surrounding my waste
It wasn't until I cut open your
bulimic stomach that I found those two, dead,
rotting fruits. Brown and dry. So I threw them away,
because they are not my only fruit and now my
ripe hands covet my own heart, kissing its white flesh.