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My Dark Muse

I reconstructed you from the thin hairs
of my brush, from the memory of your flesh
the thick blur of scar tissue.
my only friend, roused by the ache in my throat
your longing, sick tumult of thirst
drinking from the split neck.
you are loam, you are glass, acrylic;
delicate face of despair, body of blood, and then
you turn grey then black
to white and back, leaving just this; the ghost tread,
those paper-thin footsteps marking the page.
and I am comforted,
knowing your dark disease will find its way back;
back into the bedsores and between my lips
spreading itself through all those complicated reds,
because you will find me.
you always find me,
driving your pins back into my heart
up to the ink well, reminding me of all these wounds
I love you for.

29 Jun 18

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lines  1 to 2 sounds like a voodoo doll is being made. lol
 — unknown

that is an excellent comment! you've given me some cool imagery, it works really well with this.
i'm going to call it voodoo now, thanks!
 — jenakajoffer