The Blood Tree
I wait for my lover to destroy me with the gentle words of a letdown,
And, to my dismay, I discover that this will not come.
I resign to the terrible truth
That I am left to await my pending self-destruction—
It will be born of poison (I am sure of it)
And, most certainly, of all things unnatural.
I am wrapped in tulle and polyester—
A woodland nymph,
Pitifully beautiful in desperation.

It’s not lonely here,
Yet, I yearn for much more than the world has ever given me.
I want the red trees that stand,
Outlined by the yellow flowers of a weeping, gallant bonsai.
I want the tombstones that surround my sordid soul.
What else is there to do?

The mangled branches reach out earnestly—
They mock my pain and envelope me affectionately,
Snarling, smiling, skulking.
Its pulsating veins penetrate my translucent skin.
Is this what death looks like?

I wait for my lover to destroy me with the gentle words of goodbye,
I know that this will not come, and to my fervent dismay,
I am left to wait patiently for my pending self-destruction.
It’s not lonely here.

I realize that I must bestow the gentle words of goodbye,
I must mock myself among the leaves.
I must, I must, I must,

The air is damp—a humid potion of lavender and blood,
It dances and creeps into the confines of my psyche.
Serpentine, sick, sinister.
I feel the imminent descent of insanity—
What else is there to do?

My skin is turning black and blue,
An ash white (or is it gray?)—
A sorry color that knows no bounds,
My body will soon disintegrate,
My soul along with it—
Pitifully beautiful in desperation.