a rock hammer

You looked at me so infinitely I honestly thought I would crumble into an ashtray. My hands fell to the ground and I dragged my nails across the cement to check if I could still bleed the way I'm suppose to. It wasn't blue and I'm still not convinced I function properly. I felt the way you scrutinized my actions. Mouth slightly agape and much too curious were I would stop, if I should stop. You've never once told me to stop.

We are like a fiery comet inches from the ozone layer and ready to nosedive the earth straight into my own personal Armageddon. I want to suffer in a biblical sense; impaled on the fluttered fingertips of a beaten rosary left in the lawless sunshine for fifteen decades. All I ask is that you trail my jaw line in spite of my non-existent faith every now and again. Humor me. Desecrate me. I love in the same context I write; butchered on a slab of indecision.

I'm a vulgar sacrament testing the limits of your skin. Dripping a corrosive fascination into a soft aureole around your throat, and knitting my flaws as the future collapse of your veins.  Satan was a careless angel. Jesus was a snarling alcoholic in theory. You're basorexia in the flesh, and I have the texture of sin. This is a confession I don't care to repeat. This is a thought I've lost.