Conjuror, with a god’s hands
and an iron fist,
you fastened me
in your electric grip—
roses wrapped like vines
around your fingers,
to strangle me
with a white blanket
on a bed of thorns.
Death tears holes
in the underground.
Even Hades couldn’t swallow me.
Mortality would burn
like mustard gas
on his tongue.
What am I now?
You wage wars
in my subconscious.
I am Persephone,
half-frightened, half-in love,
with your words,
the ones that twist
two voices into one.
Your voice
becomes my own,
and grows like a tumor
in my brain.
My cancer: each day you gnaw
away at my bones.
I erode, vertebrae by vertebrae,
until I am erased.
Read 2 comments and reply