i am a beautiful and fucking ugly thing
so live. create. kill.
The morning heartbeats always flutter,
as ships in the forest become bare
and the restless dead still mutter.
Where my dearest Robert still roams,
bright smiles no longer reach his eyes;
the empty side he used to lie,
cries, for him to come back home.
I am hollowed out, my confessions stutter
as I draw in, this retreating air,
and the night reaches deep into my hair
never to remember what I love, what I utter
In the burnt mornings my heart flutters
and these escalading desires become bare
I hear the lullaby that you still mutter
like your fingers dig deep, singing into my hair…
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God, maybe I am in love
