Love Me to Death

Our love was born in the morgue    
in a deep basement without sunlight    
between neons and blinding lamps    
a stench of fermentation and formalin,    
surgical tables, black blood and steel     
     
My lady dissects corpses    
seeking the cause of decease.    
No-one can match her intuitiveness    
finding the mechanisms of transition    
the subtle traces of death      
     
None is as beautiful as she      
in her white jumpsuit tight lycra      
under the coat of transparent PVC      
the long black hair, gathered in a bonnet      
shiny glasses and sharp scalpel      
     
I am her personal assistant    
only I can stand her relentless pace.    
I help her as best I can in her regimented existence  
of study and endless autopsies    
I am her minion, overlord of the trivial detail      
     
My mistress trusts only me    
I know and hide her terrible secret    
I protect and conceal her madness    
how she whispers obscenities in a raptus grip    
remembering the dead father who raped her       
     
"Again you come to Haunt me, motherfucker!    
So! Have I not already ripped your carcass?    
Haven't I plucked out your damn black heart?    
But I was sure, I have probed your skull    
to identify what diseased your filthy brain!"      
     
She hears voices, is prey to visions,    
loses control, rages against an innocent corpse    
on which she etches wanton wounds    
She tears it apart with the scalpel and the saw blade    
in a black rain of fluids and bonedust.      
     
Then, exhausted, she slowly recovers her reason    
gasping, foaming at the mouth, without recall.    
I'd console and take her home.    
She lives alone and when she asks me to stay with her,  
of course I agree,  
I'd do anything to serve her better.       
     
----      
     
"Use my body if you want!"    
she says one day, and lets herself be loved.    
But she was motionless, impassive on the bed, distracted.  
The experience was icy, like possessing a dead    
I want love and her frigidity torments me      
     
The black priestess of the morgue    
is only interested in dissecting corpses    
intimately involved in slashing at the inert    
sinking her gloved hands into their entrails    
she becomes inexplicably aroused
like my jealousy      
     
"I'll make you love me, your way!"    
I say
and put the scalpel in her hand    
and draw its lethal sharpness to my chest.    
She hesitates a little and then cuts me deeply      
     
"I have something that the corpses have not -    
the warm blood dripping, flowing on your hands!"    
a glimmer of light appears in her eyes    
while she digs deep in my chest.    
And little by little she begins to want me       
     
She rides me while dissecting my flesh    
repassing repeatedly the letters of her name    
L  E  A  N  N  E    
and for the first time, she reaches orgasm.    
I'm happy, I rejoice in the pain of the wounds,    
that my blood and her pleasure soaked our love      
     
Our happiness is short, her crisis worsens    
along with her urge to vivisect me.  
She mangles me with surgeries, so cruel    
she has to restrain me.      
     
Until one day she crosses the line    
slicing my abdomen deeply and slowly    
so when I have recovered from the swoon    
I find her rummaging through the peritoneal cavity  
smiling and whispering comforting words      
     
A last agonizing farewell    
she's so beautiful in her shiny latex suit    
"I loved you so much!" She admits    
while the circular saw blade separates the lid off my skull    
 
I feel the warmth of her fingers which I kiss    
while her gloved hand covers my mouth,    
stifling my last cries of pain.