Yesterday he showed me his bruises.
Pulled his sweater up and underneath his breast
They were scattered across his ribcage like a
Little patch of violet rorschach tests.
He said, "Just because I can't crawl inside you
That doesn't mean I'm not your parasite."
He used to be so radiant.
So sexy when he laughed.
Now his eyes look like gravesites as he speaks in epitaphs.
Half asleep in an open grave,
I'm gazing into the sky carving his shape into the dark clouds.
I want him to drown me in his poison.
I thought he was sewing up my wounds,
But he was just putting tumors inside them.
A pair of cracked snowflakes bleed behind a veil of crimson butterflies.
His face is a heaven littered with dead angels.
I bathed in their blood, and
Slept upon their severed wings,
Imagining a place called innocence.
I see flashes of pale skin writhing in bruised ecstasy.
I am the immortal disciple of a dying god.
His smile has gone and in the bedroom,
There is only the hollow scraping of skeletal lovers, dreaming of skin.