I glide by the twisted syndrome featured by ghost smiles,
I despise the breath acquired in fat dreams,
Instict or not, the latter deems i foreign to perpetual talks,
The sanctuary of my unborn will busking in the salty joys of blood dipped in honey,
Broken skulls served at dinner,
The delicacy of a witch whose breasts nurtured i not,
Forced to call thee mother, step to my unpolished guts,
Woman! did your ovaries taste of my ripened sweat?
Oh! i see your teeth, masked in dreadful laughter,
I shake your hands with a hundred thoughts,
My heart dead of your presence,
The sun winks at i,
Your trust has holes, as graves,
I pause for a while,
Seeing is never to be confused with believing.
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