Crushing, isn't it;
     the absent brush of skin-on-skin.
Cold toes under warm sheets,
     the bed is empty all the same.
Ghosts of lovers past,
     numb tongues, carpet burn on your knees.
Soft murmurs, be quiet, I know, I know, shh,
     bruises on your knuckles from being held so tight.
Crushing, isn't it;
     the missing weight of bodies on top of yours.
Lukewarm kisses on yielding skin,
     he is gone all the same.
You promised your heart wouldn't burst as he himself did,
     and he is gone all the same.

He calls himself a man
but he dosent deserve the title
I call him an it
For he has no right to the stick between his hips
Castration
Maybe thats the key
is it crude to say I'd do it slowly?
Id take joy in listening to his every Shrill scream
I need to stop,  before I really start to scheme
Maybe its mean
but I never claimed to be nice
And honest
If you knew
I think youd think he deserves it to