You dream of death.
And my hands bleed for you.
You dream of love.
And my knees bear the scars.
But they —
or you —
do not linger long enough
for the stains to make their mark.
I guess my impressions do not impress.

You only desire outlet.
Flesh,
like lightning,
conducted in the dark
you pretend not to command.
But I see more than you feel.
And I hate my eyes.
For the forgiveness
they shed —
every dawn —
over this abandoned bed.