affection.

your
infected affection is an affliction
afflicting the fiction surrounding these
convictions which as a fragile collective make
up my defective perspective, reflected by
the caustic invective i spew, and in lieu of
more protective directives, i give this angry
heat to an angry beat and flow it convective
through connective tissues misused and abused
because i play the blues on my heartstrings--
and it's your song that my heart sings: a melody with a malady
so i guess it's true that good art stings,
sinks into the skin but deeper, you draw rings 'round my sins
like tattoos but cheaper, highlighting for the reaper
every
goddamn
time i let you down.
your kiss
tastes like smoke and i choke on the hope
that i might someday breathe you out of me,
bleed you free of these vain veins,
because we both know i am so very full of myself--
but the problem with being full of yourself
is that among the broken and twisting labyrinth
of your brain (which is nothing but dead ends)
you are
alone--
meanwhile, you've made it so my head doesn't
feel like home but some dive of a nightclub where
ghosts go to hear sad songs about girls gone by,
to hear cry--no, lie in wry lines wrung dry of
every tear i have to spill. you have killed every thrill
and instilled every ill that i could possibly feel; you have
so daunted my haunted dreams that you are all that's real
and no matter how i steel myself against the infection of
your afflicted affection, i am consumed by your nightly
insurrection--
because i'm just another busted heart in your
growing art collection.