I am burdened by the thought of you,
you with your four-letter word, pinpricks under the skin.
It is calamus and brine. No real appeal to the endearment
aside from the fact that you rip the soul apart- limb from limb.
You are a fate worse than death. Holding figures on red threads,
the promise of that sweet amour tinged with iron.
Giving years of your life for a proposition. Insanity, it is.
Leaving nothing to your name except the promise
of being a possession.