Sweet fruit on my tongue, carry me—my mind—into the storm. Break apart my revelations. What is my name? Empty wine bottles thrown against a wall—spirits wandering through the rain, so save mine. I know what death means, not life. Let me drown in this downpour. Let me sleep. I am poisoned.
"Burn my skin the way you burn my mind."
Where do I bleed from? My lips, my tongue, my flesh—I am a blur of grey and crimson. I am broken. Let me breathe, even if blood (it's stained them now—save me—) paints my lips.
Where is my voice? You are a secret that I crave to be exposed. Maybe I will bleed away that violence that tore my soul. I am silent. I have been silent. For years, I have been silent. Let me speak. Why can't I speak?
Listen. Listen. Listen to me.
I am alive—
I feel you, still. In my bones, I feel you. I cannot escape.
Do not touch me there. I am sensitive. My skin still burns (and my mind is on fire with the scream of static and I still can't think—save—) on my thighs. Be gentle. Love me and show me he does not live inside you, but be gentle with your passion. Why has nobody been gentle?
He ripped out my tongue. So I cannot speak.
I still feel him. I still taste the blood on my lips, but I've forgotten the taste of fruit.
And I don't think I will ever remember.
