i, spellbound, have turned a ritualistic pattern into a death bed.

i, ritualistic, have turned the death bed into a mating ground,

not mating for fulfillment, to enrich the dusty corridors of our desires.

We lay in the aftermath, dizzying and erratic,

I am fantastic as history repeats itself with another wound.

I am cancerous and needy, dreading the midnight woe of your silence,

When the time is spreading us thin, another calendar day, I set fire to every living thing in your hallways.

I want to feel the pulse of your agony, grip me when we sleep.

i, in the mating ground, have turned myself over to mother darkness,

slept in her womb for years, and then grew up and fucked my way to another ending,

spelling out the eras with my acidic tongue and your foreign flesh,

I gripped your power, master, let me lead you into oblivion.

I am erratic, in the sense of fury distress on every word we left behind in our disaster room,

I assume we called it quits when the moon disappeared from the sky,

everything has its limit.

I built an era from your absence, and I mark the days with blood.