Stillborn.

Dead, are you dead?
Your voice, it was sick, the cold kind.
But it was the same, like I heard it
Close to my ears, closer to my shoulders.
Asking if something happened,
Answering, no nothing at all
I just fell out of love. And you lost me.
Though this sadness of a loss, is better.

You, you are alive I know.
Alive in your imagination, construction
Disassociations feeding our love and these pores
Open night and day to breathe in truth.
You are just an addict, I am your poison.
Pretending to forgive, hoping to love
That night when I slipped away to another bed,
You didn't notice my different smell.

I climbed onto these cushions of flesh
Mattress filled with hair of men
Their nails as the edges to a deformed bed.
Not sleeping on it, just lying, and pretending
Pretending to make love to a statuette of young illusions.
Like I had to these men I now climb over.
Lover, you should've come over, they had said.
I went and tried, one more time. I never 'came'.

My muse threatens to leave after these endeavors,
After the times I come back from seeing you, and you.
She threatens and expects regret, I show none.
No passion, no fear, no love, no hope.
Women get dried up easily, the fertility of their heart
Doesn't last too long. Hoping we'd begin and give birth again.
Forgetting the still borns that still lie in our drawers,
Feeding and relieving, remembering when I had felt a heart.