Tags
art, Buzzcocks, cold tongue on warm flesh, death changes nothing, erotic pain, ghost lover, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Of course I believe in hell—What’s worse
than this? Wanting one you know you shouldn’t?
No, that’s what we all do. It’s that old curse;
finding out just what a vile and blatant
bastard you’re stuck with. That’s lamentable.
That’s a joke. That’s the one thing we all say,
“this must end.” I was inconsolable
when you left. I was wretched on the day
you came back home. It’s hard not to despise
someone who takes my love for granted. Death
changed nothing; you’re still a pig when you touch
me. Cold tongue on warm flesh, between your thighs,
your cock filling me. I can feel your breath
coming in quick gasps. I hate you so much.
][][
you disturb my natural emotions/ you make me feel I’m dirt/ and I’m hurt
and if I start a commotion/ I’ll only end up losing you/ and that’s worse
—buzzcocks, “ever fall in love with someone you shouldn’t’ve?
