Poetry for Moths

Torchlight my burrowed brain, Wrap your film around my feelings. Wreck me from inside with pain stoppers  To punch-plug the bleeding. I recumb, Sandpaper eyes and body of uranium; I taste like salt, like iron, like metal, Call me a cauterised corpse, a burnt petal. Still, you don't run. How come? They'd think us a carnage, you know, a bloodbath If they heard it, The way we dissect our bruises uncensored, Our thoughts decomposed, an absurd fit. Glued gum, You the apprehensive and the taut, Me the sensitive and the numb. I guess I love you, call me stupid, call me otherworldly,  Call me dumb. I'll tiptoe the perimeters of your space always, I'll call, No matter if you need it, Shut the doors, build a wall. Give me love and I'll water it, absorb it, upkeep it. Love me, and I'll breathe it.

My fingers are slums, Where squalid thoughts go to wander, Materialise, and be torn asunder, Pitied like crumbs. Massacred, mangled, burst: Now ashtrays are coffins, And oxygen has toxins,  The party bus into the New Year, a hearse.  My fingers are parched, Pleading for good times to pillage My insides empty, a love spillage, The world, starched. They all agree though, come through, This year will be better. But all I can think of is that I'll never forget her, First year without you.

Scorch my heart, fiery fiend, Break the bones of my bad back to lay them bare. Latch on to my eyes like tarp, like sludge, like muck, Quarantined and devoid of air. Me, the sitting duck. Me, the unprepared, the crushed. Velvet blood core. And you, no heart, no bones, no eyes, no breath, Are cherished dust, a memory. Take me to shore, And cut my cold hair. Rid me of this harrowing treachery, My senses beat to death. Dry me like a flower, strip me naked, Take everything you see fit, Even my mind, I'll let you break it. Ruin me, see if I care. Anything to hear your voice again, Burn me to the ground, if you dare. Fallen too far, knees shattered and bent,  Now I only beg you to help it all make sense,  Pick me up withered, a flower so dry, As I ask for one last sound,  One last cry with my dear old friend, Just one world paradox, once before the end.