My dearest dear, how can you do this thing?
This is my heart you tear with your sharp claws.
I’d only just begun to heal and here you are once more;
As recklessly and cruelly as before.
Ah yes, I will admit, I told you it was yours,
But is this the way to treat this precious device?
It is precious to me… perhaps it is not to you.
The blood it pumps around my living corpse
Is the fluid that bleeds for you each time you strike.
When you drive your cruel nails;
Your vicious teeth; and worst, your sharp tongue
Into my all too tender flesh.
Oh bitter words, that spring from your sweet mouth.
That mouth that rested once so sweetly on my own,
That mouth that called me Wonderful and drew me close
To your sweet self, with promises of everlasting joy.
And why, when you lean so heavily
On the blade that enters my tortured shell,
Do I see the tears start from your eyes so surely
As the red liquid that gushes from my flesh?
Those crystal drops from your sweet dark eyes,
Mixing with the turgid juice that surges from my wounds.
But still your hand and arms and shoulders drive
That brutal sword between my ribs to reach my heart.
Ad still the venom from your young red lips
Spills its acid rivers in my tormented ear.
And still your lovely eyes peer through a blood haze into my soul,
And peek and pry for the lowering of my defences.
My reason and my mind seek refuge in tortured tears.
Your hatred of me triumphs at my despair; my agony.
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