We’re not going to fit, I’m a puzzle
     who’s never at peace, this is as
     good as it gets or ever will be, go
     in for the kill but don’t hold me
     responsible, not until you miss and
     remember all my promises
     were made for you to forget, fucking with
     a devout heretic never

ends well and won’t fulfill your wishes, I’m
     a genius not a genie,
     baby, a bruised bottle of emotions
     rarely even opened, too much
     of this is never enough for those who
     relent to temptation, devils
     coveting innocence, shaking off their
     oath of the abyss to rub mouths

against the sound of my loss’ gain, to kiss
     with molten lips the gloss melting
     on the cunt of a candle’s swollen gun,
     soaking love in the smoke of some-
     one else’s silence, sorrow sounds somehow
     like sex wed to violence, fire
     making a furnace of revelation,
     sin’s message is massive damage

replayed, a game of not knowing what to
     say taking from time’s cold hands its
     destruction of all things sublime, any
     sign sent from above not heaven’s
     but mine, a boldness of lines standing in
     for something no one since my own
     creation realizes is a trick
     of the tongue, language licking off

the claws of left-handed guitarists, those
     moonlit monsters from whose rabid
     hearts we devout heretics rip hard shreds
     of our magical knowledge, how
     we spell LOVE manifests what we tell our
     Selves, raises into existence
     viral husbands whose lies can’t resist us,
     insidious (per)versions of (y)our

hurts, four-letter herds led to water down
     this burn, lessons pulled from out the
     Pandora’s Box that is the hopeless chest
     of lust beating closed perception’s
     doors before what we never learn bites ass
     fantasy eats and belief fills,
     loads that deliver evil to the thrill,
     killing us all until we heal.