VIII

I’m not magnificent.
And I am so glad that you have realised we are.
My love is a perfect creature,
And I look forward to breaking you.

Twisting, stretching, ripping.
Feeling your grains soft on my fingertips,
Rolling them like
Your tense shoulders every night.

“Am I worth it?”
What answer could satisfy such a disposable sort.
“I don’t know,
but you always look at me like I’m pretty.”

He was normally now endlessly pallid.
My hands became too enthralled with
The pitiable life that laid beneath them,
And they acted.

He’s ugly, far less attractive than say,
3 hours ago?
Or more,
I can’t decide.

Polite pounds on the door
Remind me of the cracks in the mirror.
I look fairly deadly.

But he can wait.
And the lights?
They needn't be turned on.