Liar

Liar.

How goes the Hunt;
how flows the acid you spit daily from your White mouth?

How roils my vitriol through your weak constitution?
Had I the power to take off your head--
I would not.

I want you to rot from the core.

Olive skin, scalpel'd smile, sculpted hands
(and oh-- how they held me, how they spoke and caressed)
blackened; cracking; hammer-shattered and bleeding.

Spare me your syrupy demon venom,
spare me the denim (your silken sheets)--
leave me to mourn the death of your Soul--

Liar.

Can you feel panic in your synapse-fire;
my message racing its way up your spine,
to your brain,
to the place where a conscience should be?
O sentient being?

My breath rolls out from me.
Does it seek you, or some other thing;
to set the air to boiling,
or to meet with the breath of a machine
which runs
day and night:
factory of lies, sighs only half-promised

and dreams that may never have been?

I see the answer in your milky stare.

Liar.