Tear me apart with your teeth only
so you can learn how to chew your
own sins and spit them out in the
graves of those unholy enough to
dance around the guts of Roman
dynasties.
Your lungs are two breathless
creatures you've tamed to hold
still at the sound of your broken
ribs, stained with violet and blue
hues, hollow and bottomless; it's
a miracle the way they scream
nirvana after you've taken your
last breath.
Heart after heart, you've collected
a crystal cabinet, blood dripping
from the corners, floor tiles washed
with liquid war and melted silver
from each of your swords.
Forged into telephones, the bones
of your victims (cracked, aching,
made with dry foam and trapped
pleads of redemption) ring, and
ring, and ring, and—are you going
to take the call? God isn't very
patient, darling.
Melt their skin after you've kissed
it, lovebird; let's get rid of the evidence
that a young empress like you ever
existed.
