You had the hands of a poet,

Carrying words in the back pocket of your jeans

a crumpled packet of fags.

Your face etched out a

dystopian future,

my eyes filled with ash.

As we walk through the house of adopted skulls,

and you tell me of your Mongolian funeral,

stripped of your remaining flesh by vultures

my cunt swelled with love.

The only time I feel wholly yours

is with you inside of me

your hot breath in my bones

my scalp my teeth my cheeks

with screams and grunts of wanting



blowing smoke in my wounds.

I want to trust you

but an inbuilt cynicism demands you

don’t really want me

but an idea,

a concept

to improve

and cultivate,

to experiment

and one day move on to

a simpler project.

No doubt,

I will be our end.

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