An itch of another corpse

By Ms Lekgau

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Let's make love, dwell deep within lack of tolerance and call it a casket.

Hand you the nail, in piercing of the fragments left from my heart to be publicized as a symbol of "your type" of love.

Let's make love, dwell deep within lack of tolerance and call it a casket.

On Tuesday, above you lay stars of the romantics and white scented statues beside you holding a memorial service; their flames were lights not too bright to save the numb body that lay below you rooting for your love in dependence of "your type" of love.

Convinced that you're worth being saved, she beats through manipulation and your bad use of diction.

An oath made merging her lack and your fist to one source, called love.

Leaving is not optional for her guardian beat her, so as new hardware, she recorded stitches as a symbol of love.

I'm not surprised; she feeds wounds of your violence as an interpretation of love because her malicious hardware tells her that when you're beaten you to a pulp, you're loved.

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We've dined in their similarity; dysfunction.

And I watch her broken yet craving your fist for at least I was loved.

So then, let's make love, dwell deep within lack of tolerance and call it a casket.