The bodies pile up
next to my sacrilegious
place of sleep.
There is no comfort in this bed -
rest is robbed from my eyes
by sirens of my own creation.
They wander the Earth
with their unwashed souls
packed tightly in my pocket.
The smell of long dead lilies
stalks me unrelentingly;
my face has lost its color
my hair has lost its oil.
I\'m the most foul lover;
gorging myself until
my innards implode
with rogue feelings
germinated from
spores of lust.
Binge and purge,
I can handle this.
Binge and purge,
tenderness is a construct.
Binge and purge,
how many more lies?
Binge and purge,
binge and purge.