you had your lines ready
(one, two, three)
they’ve been perfected,
sculpted;
it’s a subtle art
the skill of a magician’s
slight of hand
works inside your head
transforms
intentions into something
that seems so much sweeter

and who could know
which number I am
somewhere
floating in the middle maybe,
your tongue never tires of
the old worn out phrases
(hook, line, sinker)
and lies have never
made your lips sore-
you don’t know of aching

you crave blood,
a warm body,
addicted to touch-
(the heat, the wave, the sheen of love)
hidden box of mementos,
one a piece;
trophy-mounted hearts
an obsession with screams

you’ve left your mark,
and I can’t discern
carved signature
from scar

but nothing matters-
who would care?
that you’ve left me to rot
in open air