September 18, 2016
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Do not stare,

for its blankness empties me.

Do not speak,

for its bluntness stabs me.


Only when your eyes clap

and lips cling on so dearly

I shall approach.


And when I approach

like a blood-red rafflesia

amongst the delicate roses

my stench may encroach

on your velvety noses.


Oh rafflesia

The gash from your dagger,

unsheathed and unleashed

an inch from my breath

a day from my death.


Oh rafflesia

The burn from your love,

scorching and singeing.

Love so brilliant

Yet darts past me singing.

A tune so pensively radiant

Alas, it was not meant for me.


Oh rafflesia

The scab follows the burn,

like a long night about to dawn.

An uninvited guest,

in a mid-summer night.

The sleepwalker,

refusing to yawn.


My drooling lips point at you.

And when our eyes clap

and our lips cling on so dearly,

let us kiss.


Only then

the rafflesia's disgusting lips

may embrace

the rose's divine splinters.

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