If your lips make me live,
I rather drink poison than to hear you speak.
The wounds from your thorns are never enough.
Your kiss has clawed my soul,
and unconsciously you thirst for more.
You are moronic enough
to taunt such beast execrable,
and wit up at the sound of chains loosening up.
When the silence inhospitable carves a hole in your core,
you return in quivering salt,
and pray that into oblivion falls the maelstrom you caused.
Alas! By blood I am tied to your cross.
In forgiving you I bemoan when you don’t see me crawl;
for, after, you vex the fiend once more,
and so the cycle goes.