The Whore That Killed Me

The whore that killed me
wore the moon on her hair,
all magnetic silver sex magic.
Her breasts were snow chalices
brimming with fire,
her pussy was a red rose
from which unholy dew flowed.
Throughout the night,
we rode a wine-dark wave of lust,
traded secrets and bites,
licked each other's hearts
(hers was honey and hemlock)
Her mind smelled like burnt candy,
like a thousand angels
dying in slow motion,
so I let her sacrifice me
at the altar of her loneliness,
a blood-smeared room downtown,
and though she drank my delirium
from a jewelled cup,
she whispered "I'll never be yours"
and smiled like the devil
on vodka and LSD.