Poetry Stage

Ever since the first time we made love, my dove, you already know that I am a poet.

A poet whose life almost reached its last page, a poet who's holding onto the last drop of ink like the prayers of the moon, a poet who was stuck at the brink of death. Knowing this, will you be alright?

I bleed onto your lips, letting you savor the bitterness of my sin when we hold each other so dearly. I breathed into your lungs, into your veins, deep into your bones, and yet you never run away from all of the pain I’ve caused. I consumed your soul, for I am nothing but a selfish boy with a pen in his hand and gods against his shallow heart.

Tell me, my dove, will you be alright?

I rot and waste against your skin, digging claws into your neck as we kiss once again. For the last time. Even if the only thing that’s left of me is a corpse, I will still find ways to force a tear out of your pretty eyes. And it haunted me.

I don’t want to be a poet, I never wanted to be a poet.

I was scared.

But with a smile so bright and a soul that were too happy for this damned place, maybe I’ll write you a poem. Just once. Just this once. So maybe you will finally look at me. So that you will look at words and remember how painfully I thread them together for you to see. Words that you will never be able to understand.

I know you will be alright, my dove.

Because you can finally know how much I really love you. Even scared, even wounded, even in death.

You will always be my favorite victim of love.