There is rust in my mouth, the stain of an old kiss. And my eyes are turning purple, my mouth is glue and my hands are two stones and the heart, is still there, that place where love dwelt but it is nailed into place. Still I feel no pity for these oddities, in fact the feeling is one of hatred. For it is only the child in me bursting out and I keep plotting how to kill her.
Once there was a woman, full as a theater of moon and love begot love and the child, when she peeked out, did not hate herself back then. Funny, funny, love what you do. But today I roam a dead house, a frozen kitchen, a bedroom like a gas chamber. The bed itself is an operating table where my dreams slice me to pieces.
Oh love, the terror, the fright wig, that your dear curly head was, was, was, was.
