"The happiest songs all end with a smile."

Doom,
Doom, doom.

They called it music, but to me;

Doom.

Nothing reminds me of you.
Not even this, no.

I'm sorry. I can't lie anymore.

M (for the Masochist)

I knew a girl that wore her bruises as if it had never occurred to her that it was a sin.

She called them 'love bites' (they were not),
but they were one and plenty.
Red and black and blue;
and beautiful
like the amorphous glimmer
of dying stars.  

And she wore them with honour;
for how could she possibly hate anything from those hands?

Impossible, impossible.

Lover, don't frown—lover, she loved it!

Could you ever understand that?

Cocksure

He had a tattoo that started (or ended) at that area right above his groin.

It was of a dragon or a snake (or whatever boys think is manly these days).

I asked him where it ended, and he smiled and said, "Would you like to find out?"

and I thought; what an obnoxious little fuck.

Well,
let's have a look, then.

Imprudence

You are,
All the Wednesdays in June
(And the Thursdays that follow).

You are, we are,
Juliet and Lancelot;
Not quite right,
But damned if we were wrong.

And, Goodness (goodness!) how the grass felt,
Wet against your back and mine.
Then and there;
Why, I almost loved you!

Until the sun reached in and,
Poked its finger down my throat.
And here we are, and here you are;

Disgusting,
But lovely, still.

The Sun

Ah, that warm afternoon in March!
When you take off your socks and
Tip-toe across marble floors,
Through the doorway; out to the sun.
And you tip-toe, once again; quick on your burning feet.

And how it glistened, how it shivered with that playful blow of wind;
Desire in its simplest form.
And you, with your trickling crimson flush;
Thrust yourself into the water
and
Surrender.

Helios, don't you know?
All she ever wanted was to melt into the sun.

The Boy

A definite mistake, I know.

But who cares? Maybe I want to be wrong. Maybe I like a boy who treats me like a wet sock and only ever kisses me when he wants to f—

So what?

The way his gaze felt on my back, it was cold and warm at once, and which was which I couldn't tell. He said he liked how his name sounded on my lips, and when I pointed out that he hadn't told me, he smiled and said that even he didn't know his own name.

Well, okay.

His hair was silver grey and down to his shoulders; beautiful, if there was ever a word to describe it. And when I stared for too long, he came closer and, with his fingers, slipped a strand into my mouth. It tasted like cigarettes and coconut and lime. And I thought, my god, never have I ever tasted something so absolutely...

Wrong.

The Fox

Sometimes I think I want to hide you somewhere where no one could ever find you; like a fox burying its prized possession. Then I fear I'd bury you too deep. So deep that even I wouldn't find you. But I would never, never stop looking; even if my nails were to break and fall, I would dig with my teeth, and my nose, and my paws—until everything, everything falls apart. And even then, I wouldn't stop.

And how could I? When you're somewhere, waiting.

Or are you hiding?