The Death Of Roses

He’s splashing in cyanide tonight,
elbow deep in death grease, peeling it off
long enough to shout his love at me.

My bed is empty like this,
I lay here, empty, like this,
sipping on his poisonous spit.

The clock hisses,
my eyes burn like his swollen skin,
sleeping beasts await me
and I sit here,
just empty, like this

while he bathes in acid
and cries out his love to me,
he stands long enough to dry a bullet
and point his shaky finger at me,

I take my time,
watching the roses he gave me
dry,
each petal smells toxic,
I can’t touch them they will crush.

The clock spits after midnight,
he washes off in rust
then rushes off to spread his love on me.
I am here, like this,
empty, waiting,

for his cyanide to save me.