I kill you all the time but I don’t mean to. It is an inevitable result of you trying to kill me without meaning to.
You dress up like rusty edged love & make sure my fingers will lie. Silk, they’ll say, & satin, as you cut me to the bone.
My beloved allergen, you make me crave you. As blood leaves me, I yearn for more infection.
I am crazy in love. I love how you make me feel. I love how you dull my senses to anything else. As my throat closes, I want my blue lips to close around you, to taste you one more time.
Instead, I kill you. I starve you. I lock you away from my need, where you cannot be seen. I drive past your house, but I don’t go in.
There are those who say our next encounter will be the death of me. There are days when I think that is a perfect way to die.
Lydia Swartz, 2013