Something's gone terribly wrong,
I can feel it in my hair,
my thin ice your fingers walk on.
Your breathing like dripping water
wears my skull out.
Wait for a thousand years to open the window.
Put up a mirror so I can see the demons.
Reach in, turn it one hundred eighty degrees,
simmering in the summer sun.
Like fire to oil, you are
the catalyst of my immolation,
the cactus that quenches desire
only by burning it into dust.
And I think that if I
close my eyes, you will cease to exist,
and all the acid tears will return
to the place they came from, and
no more will your sweat etch channels
in my face.
Pores cut away and
infected with the wanting.
Hold me, I'm shaking from the heat,
all right, all right.
Copyright (c) 1997 {hamlet}Ophelia