Tainted

Buried in an unmarked grave
part of my heart
rotting there together with your corpse.
I picture little white worms writhing in your empty eye sockets
and I feel peace.

Am I going mad?

Your grave is here in my chest
and the dead in me longs to touch you
longs to wring the necks of the living
longs to lay them softly at your feet as gifts of love.

Only this can be true love
slowly losing my mind.
My fingers gently brushing the faces of the surviving
while the missing piece of me cries for bloody vengeace
for the crime of outliving you.

Would you want their corpses, my love?
Would you accept my gifts?
Is it the dead in me, or the dead in you?

Am I going mad?

Only this can be eternal love
that can taint me so.
Like your sickly, putrid blood
soaking into the soft woolen fabric of my mind
a love that can never be washed away.