Do You Think Im a Whore?    Part 1

The rose cried
under my breath as I swallowed her whole

Her stem lays on the table
a reminder for the lost petals of my wickes days
I slowly succumb into sleep, but she is nothing
more than relentless,
granting me unwlecome visits
as I loathe the little girl in me
                          the living dead whore is who I saw,
I hammered her to pieces long ago
as I did my heart, for no one merits it,
                                              but self -omission has its own way of healing
                       unlike that pearl
                                  that shines so definite
in my memories.
The type of jewelry I most hate because of what it stole.
Everytime I close my eyes
I see his face.
I wish that light, that jewel wasn't my second death, for I
 quake in the reminiscence of the touch. The first
    death I barely breathed.  The difference between
      Life and death is all the same.