Waxing Poetic
Wire coiled about me, rusted pricks of metal ripping and tearing as I move, my sharp digits reach towards you and slice. Each of your fingers I cut off, one by one, and grind their bones into powder. I lace my tea with the white dust, and intoxicate myself at your expense, and still you look at me with those eyes. My tongue and mind lash out, between the lines I ask "Why don't you hate me?" and still you look at me with those eyes. My fingers pry and tear their way into you, and I cannot tell the crimson from the salt, and still the question hovers unaswered. I tie you up in silk scarves of complication and blindfold you, my fingers still deep underneath your ribs, my eyes burning with fire, but still the question goes unanswered. Powerless before those eyes, I turn and begin to sob, and the sea turns red.