Anne,
My pretty one,
you glance up at me from the leaves,
which hold the power to make me groan in ecstasy
or wince in pain.
When skin is sliced open,
it can talk
like dry blood
or semen.
I pray to your cadaverous body.
Your words are my bible.
Your tobacco-stained throat,
that of mad-housewife-turned-diva,
sings to me from the farthest corner of the room
and you hike your skirt up just enough
to justify my coming to you,
For only when I am at your side
can I be a living witness to your fully exposed carnality.
Breathe on me
and let me live or
spit on me
and let me die,
just somehow show me
your approval
or disdain.
I feel like I have inherited your voice
like the wind inherits the dust,
freeing it from its stagnant position
and allowing it to dance once again
and you can't fool me,
I know how much you'd love to dance
once again.
Whether you wanted to or not,
you have passed your psychosis on to me
by some odd genetic blunder.
Don't get me wrong,
I accept it wholeheartedly
and actually embrace it.
I will swallow you down greedily
and my acidic insides will digest you,
permitting you to seep into my muscles,
nurturing me,
allowing me to grow.
