The Scar(red) Tissue of an Incurable Wound.

(photo by Diletta Shakespeare)

(I want to kill you;)

My gift to you will be your death.
Your demise shall lack mercy,
pity and compassion.
Neither words or silence
will be my weapon to end you.
A knife; a sword is the gift
I received from you,
for your disregard
has repeatedly slain me
in countless pieces
of rotten soul
and lifeless flesh.

("I did love you once",)

And I do still.
I will turn my heart into stone
and hit you until you bleed.
The ache shall not be nearly as
destructive
as the one you gave me,
but I promise
my effort will be glorious.
Your heart shall burst and break
like splattered blood.
And I will savour the bitterness
from the hollow in your chest.

(I will feast on oblivion,)

And I will dance to your screams
until your cries unite with mine
and my ears go deaf
and my eyes red.
I will drink from your skull
all the thoughts you never shared
and I will spit them out on the ground
until they dry out
and become worthless scars
in a world where I no longer care
and you no longer exist
because your fall amuses me.

(You have injured me)

And rendered me emotionally impaired
while I struggled to become
something
inside the ever-growing nothingness
I was to you.
One cannot easily master the instincts
of one's heart
unless this organ of ash
is tossed like
love that never was,
like a dream that never ceased
to dwell in fantasy.