deepundergroundpoetry.com

Incinerated  

I'm curled in a pile of
ashes at your feet,
charcoal eyes rolled back
in a tolling
hallelujah,
lashless lids,
crackling into
faithless particles of
nothing.

The toe of your boot
sifts through,
to see what's left,
and there's a sickening
silence in the air,
heavy enough to
make us both flinch.

From the dust-caked ether,
I'm soundlessly screaming,
desperately clinging.
reaching and yearning,
and you can't hear, or
see
or feel
my active inaction,
because  my vocal chords burned
in that last fire, darling,
my arms were incinerated.

and I'm no longer able to
reach out.
I just can't.
(justcan’tcan’tcan’tcan’t)
because the heat was too much
and I don't know how  
to form sick flesh,
from the nothing
in  which I'm cocooned.

If I could, though,
could rise anew,
I'd hitch forward,
and rub my disease on your skin
inch by inch
as you stretched my willing body
on the altar;

I'd eat your filth,
I'd arch up to meet the knife,
and beg for more
as you cut through the latex exterior
and fucked that
soft pretty shit inside me
three ways to Sunday

If I had lungs, I'd breathe you
nothing but,
your name like a prayer,
like a worship,
like the stars in my sky  
and all the other cheap cliches,

and I'd say your name like I meant it,
like I was fucking it,
like it was a secret language that made  
my internal bellows function
and my knees weak
and my mouth dry
and lips wet.

If I had words anymore, love,
I'd tell you that I want you more
right now
(right now)
than I have before,
more

than I can bear

That I've never known
what desire really tastes like,
and to find it like this
with you
stretches my charred skin
so thin that you can see the
muscle striations beneath
the surface as I struggle to
not
get away.

I'd say that I want to run,
so fucking far
so fucking far,
that when I stop,  
I look up to an alien sun
and cry in distraught relief,
tears burning acid tracks down
my soul
because I might,
in that strange space
not obsess about the way
I think to reach for you
a thousand times a day;
and then curl in a ball
wailing, shattered, grieved
to think that might
be possible,
to live without
you tormenting
my every thought

my.
every.
fucking.
thought.

But my saving grace is my feet were
annihilated, too,

so I'm unable to take the
first step

away.
Written by Betty
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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