I turn into a fly
thinking of your heart beats
clenching on the memories
and my brain
like the web of a spider
out on hunt?
How do I cease
to not have a fucking holocaust
in my belly
with butterflies burning
to death
from choked lacerations and bile?
You come in my dreams
- no, I won't call them nightmares -
just rainbowed hope bubbles
of your love
friendship
trust
resuming to exist
for real
this next time that's
never
never going to be.
Is this love?
They say, I'm sick
crazy
delusional
and traumatised.
Do you believe them?
Am I a desperate soul
which just found something to love?
Or clung onto any thing -
something that didn't even exist?
You can't tell me
with words as empty
as the opaqueness
of my glass windows,
can you?
I wish you'd have loved me.
For now, I do.