The sound of your voice
as your walls come up
the sacred inability 
to fully trust
like words resting
on the tip of your tongue
you want it to come out
but can't quite get it
 

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Forget me please
I scream at you
as you knock on my door
with tears in your eyes
in that black dress
once again

I hit you
with all my force
push you away
and slam that door
into you face

I hear you cry
in the rain
and I know
you´ll be back

I can´t kill
a memory

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Wounded.

Black bullet hole wound
blooms red November petals.
Blood and remembrance.

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the red regret of Thomas

my fingers drip crimson apologies
but now it’s far too late

I wanted to feel the red in you
to let the steaming  coils
wrap themselves around my disbelief

so when you offered your wounds
I was cautious at first
but needed to satisfy fears

apprehension turned
to blood lust
even as the sticky mess of truth
congealed upon my skin

tears dribbled down my ...

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