January 23, 2011
In synthetic hearts the flies leave

the larva to eat its way out the hole.

Don’t worry, Love; for tears are what we crave and

the difference is the blood we infect with knives.

To how much I love you

IS the infected wound.

Kiss poison, and wrap me around the whole like the black tourniquet.

Tell me if it stings, tell me if you weep;

ill be there in one blink to catch

them in the stained glass.

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