Split-lip romance,
lost in the taste of
burning milk cartons.
Lashes line
laughter along the canvas
of perverse pupils. a thirst so numb.
While making love to him {is more-
so} like making love to a mannequin.
beautiful to the sight. shallow to the touch.
As my heart-beat
is broken in pulp-
fiction fraternities,
and
nothing
breathes
the
same
tonight.
Why am I breaking under
his disguise, unable to connect
four without the multiplication of two?
As I still wish he
could catch my cries, in the
callus plastic of praying palms.
So we may believe in our emotions
and not the realization of our penetrating truth.
that maybe he is just a 'dead' fuck.
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