She’s My Word For Self-Destruction
Her heart trembles in my hands, like the wingbeats of a little baby bird.
I’ve been in love with self-destruction for so long, it seems like we’ve always been together. Her teeth in my throat, her drugs in my veins. I call it her; self-destruction has always felt like a feminine force in my life.
She’s in me, she’s of me. She’s in the heart of every fire I light, she’s in the cold pit of silence at the centre of ever shot I take. She smiles like a bullet in the heart, and she speaks like a slit throat sliding open.
She takes her time with me, killing me like cigarettes or a bad relationship. She puts ground up glass in my belly, and she wraps barbed wire between my teeth. I spit her name when I try to speak; I spit her name in blood on the floor.
Here’s a little secret about me that’s true:
I don’t think fire’s as beautiful of smoke.
Make of that what you will.
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