Knife thrust in: bled until it caked, but only after you pulled it out. My friend.
Poison pain in my ears: it screeched and burst in blazes of loud, but only after I heard silence. Love.
Burning touch: pressed in prickles, needles in my cushion skin, but only after I felt you leave. The only one.
Thicker is your absence. Thicker in the absence of sound. The knife wasn't felt until you twisted it out. Thrust it back in. The blood flows from my eyes and thickens, a crust on my lashes. I want to peel off my skin so I won't feel the holes you made when you touched so deep.
Stop these painful phrases. I'm a weak and watered down butterfly, crying at your doorstep, flowering your ears with these pretty hearts (come back, come back...) when my desire is to cut out everywhere you loved. And bleed. And float over you like an oil over water, smiling through my gentle, knifing tears.
Murder this song. Cut up these lovely, grateful, blistering, love-shot eyes. Kill these flutters. Crush this lipstick. Rip this dress. Throw me in a suitcase. Touch me with powdered gloves so your claws can bring poison. And make me tear my hair out.
