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
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.

I Do Not Believe In Love

soft arms and fresh
flesh wrap around the narrow connector of
head to chest
and force the life out –
bronchial tubes scream in agony –

live in boxes underneath
the stairs..

prayers for the girl
in the closet while
love pounds on the door

blood red roses posing
as daggers
as adoration drags their
thorns across
her face

romance and
passion lace  the glass
with arsenic

her lips are given the last taste of
love as love takes her
last breath.