Language is a skin,
prickled by love weeps when I part my lips to the hysteria of my convulsion.
My words splinter my fingers, prodding apart my lover’s flesh,
sprouting toothed petals: drifting, drifting, drifting to a now red sea.
I tell you now of a girl: dialect freckling her skin and
bile excreted beyond cries and incessant sonatas cascading keys to ocean winds,
escaping the lodged throats of her cauliflower ears.
Honey glossed her blotchy skin: pink and white scales, severed by sandpaper tongues.
Born and worshiping to her knees.
Her delicate madness entwined with the holy ghost.
A mass of irritable grief, catastrophized in her (which is my) rot.
Love is a violence,
A three-act play of her and I, quilted with our arteries’ esoteric string.
A phantom I follow, as I, (who is her) sail the seven pernicious seas
and drown in the waves of unwilling truths.
Her skin unstitches, tribulating my lonesome imprisonment to her ghost,
validating cries of the echoing phantom’s pouring hypocrisy.
My lost lover, vows to evanescence in the amorous glass of my masochist ballet.
My teeth skin to the harmony of a ripping memory.
So as my insides vomit to the drum of a loathsome dream, I stick my hand through her corpse,
drowning us in my crimson streams.